JANUARY 1, 1829.

Winter is come again. The sweet south west

Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth

Has laid aside its mantle to be bound

By the frost fetter. There is not a sound

Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid

An icy finger on the lip of streams,

And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,

And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.

Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends

Many sweet voices with its odors out,

And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe

With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!

God made his ministry a silent one,

And he has given him a foot of steel

And an unlovely aspect, and a breath

Sharp to the senses — and we know that He

Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid

Under the shadow of his hand. Look up!

And it shall be interpreted — Your home

Hath a temptation now. There is no voice

Of waters with beguiling for your ear,

And the cool forest and the meadows green

Witch not your feet away; and in the dells

There are no violets, and upon the hills

There are no sunny places to lie down.

You must go in, and by your cheerful fire

Wait for the offices of love, and hear

Accents of human tenderness, and feast

Your eye upon the beauty of the young.

It is a season for the quiet thought,

And the still reckoning with thyself. The year

Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time

Whispers the history of its vanished hours;

And the heart, calling its affections up,

Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still

And settles like a fountain, and the eye

Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all

That stirred its troubled waters. It is well

That Winter with the dying year should come!