Snow-flakes come whisperin’ on the pane,
      The charm makes blazin’ logs so pleasant,
    But I can’t hark to wut they’re say’n’,
      With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
    The chimbleys shudder in the gale, 85
      Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin’
    Like a shot hawk, but all’s ez stale
      To me ez so much sperit rappin’.

    Under the yaller-pines I house,
      When sunshine makes ’em all sweet-scented, 90
    An’ hear among their furry boughs
      The baskin’ west-wind purr contented,
    While ‘way o’erhead, ez sweet an’ low
      Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin’,
    The wedged wil’ geese their bugles blow, 95
      Further an’ further South retreatin’.

    Or up the slippery knob I strain
      An’ see a hundred hills like islan’s
    Lift their blue woods in broken chain
      Out o’ the sea o’ snowy silence; 100
    The farm-smokes, sweetes’ sight on airth,
      Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin’
    Seem kin’ o’ sad, an’ roun’ the hearth
      Of empty places set me thinkin’.

    Beaver roars hoarse with meltin’ snows,[23] 105
      An’ rattles di’mon’s from his granite;
    Time wuz, he snatched away my prose,
      An’ into psalms or satires ran it;
    But he, nor all the rest thet once
      Started my blood to country-dances, 110
    Can’t set me goin’ more ’n a dunce
      Thet hain’t no use for dreams an’ fancies.

[Footnote 23:  Beaver Brook, a tributary of the Charles.]

    Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street
      I hear the drummers makin’ riot,
    An’ I set thinkin’ o’ the feet 115
      Thet follered once an’ now are quiet,—­
    White feet ez snowdrops innercent,
      Thet never knowed the paths o’ Satan,
    Whose comin’ step ther’ ’s ears thet won’t,
      No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin’. 120

    Why, hain’t I held ’em on my knee? 
      Didn’t I love to see ’em growin’,
    Three likely lads ez wal could be,
      Hahnsome an’ brave an’ not tu knowin’? 
    I set an’ look into the blaze 125
      Whose natur’, jes’ like theirn, keeps climbin’,
    Ez long ‘z it lives, in shinin’ ways,
      An’ half despise myself for rhymin’.

    Wut’s words to them whose faith an’ truth
      On War’s red techstone rang true metal, 130
    Who ventered life an’ love an’ youth
      For the gret prize o’ death in battle? 
    To him who, deadly hurt, agen
      Flashed on afore the charge’s thunder,
    Tippin’ with fire the bolt of men 135
      Thet rived the Rebel line asunder?