The Storm

When morning broke, the air was thick with snow;
The burdened trees, with branches bending low,
Were softly mourning o'er the summer fled,
O'er leaves and flowers forever cold and dead.
The dancing flakes were shouting forth "Heigh-ho;"
The sombre forests answered back, "Oh, woe!"
When morning broke.

Ere evening's close, a welcome glory crept
Across the silent sky; the meadows slept
In mantles white; the peak was burnished gold,
And far away the tattered storm-clouds rolled.
A freezing wind across the valley swept;
The lightened swaying tress no longer wept,
Ere evening's close.