That met above the merry rivulet,
Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still,—­they seemed
Like old companions in adversity. 
Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,
Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay
As with its fringe of summer flowers.  Afar,
The village with its spires, the path of streams,
And dim receding valleys, hid before
By interposing trees, lay visible
Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts
Seemed new to me.  Nor was I slow to come
Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,
Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,
And all was white.  The pure keen air abroad,
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard
Love-call of bird, nor merry hum of bee,
Was not the air of death.  Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,
That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 
The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,
And ’neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry
A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,
The partridge found a shelter.  Through the snow
The rabbit sprang away.  The lighter track
Of fox, and the racoon’s broad path, were there,
Crossing each other.  From his hollow tree,
The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.

But Winter has yet brighter scenes,—­he boasts
Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;
Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods
All flushed with many hues.  Come when the rains
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light.  Approach! 
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad arching portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering.  Look! the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
That stream with rainbow radiance as they move. 
But round the parent stem the long low boughs
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide
The glassy floor.  Oh! you might deem the spot
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,
Deep in the womb of earth—­where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud
With amethyst and topaz—­and the place
Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam
That dwells in them.  Or haply the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the sun;—­
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles
Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost
Among the crowded pillars.  Raise thine eye,—­