The plowed field sinks in the drifting snows.
The last gray feather to southward goes.
Rattle the reeds in the frozen swamp,
When the lonely north-wind blows.
The harrow and sickle are laid away.
The barns are warm with the scent of hay;
While Death stalks free in the silent world,
Through the gloom of a winter's day.
In the creeping night the black winds cry.
The daylight comes like a stifled sigh.
The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke
Crawls up to a grayer sky.