| White are the far-off plains, and white
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| The fading forests grow;
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| The wind dies out along the height,
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| And denser still the snow
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| A gathering weight on roof and tree,
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| Falls down scarce audibly
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| The meadows and far-sheeted streams
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| Lie still without a sound;
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| Like some soft minister of dreams
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| The snow-fall hoods me round;
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| In wood and water, earth and air
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| A silence everywhere
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| Save when at lonely intervals
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| Some farmer’s sleigh, urged on,
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| With rustling runners and sharp bells
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| Swings by me and is gone;
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| Or from the empty waste I hear
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| A sound remote and clear
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| The barking of a dog, or call
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| To cattle, sharply pealed,
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| Borne echoing from some wayside stall
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| Or barnyard far afield;
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| Then all is silent and the snow falls
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| Settling soft and slow
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| The evening deepens and the grey
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| Folds closer earth and sky
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| The world seems shrouded, far away.
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| Its noises sleep, and I as secret as Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream. |