The Frozen Brook

The winter woods lie gray and still

Beneath the dreary sunless skies,

The brook that rippled down the hill

In summer hours, all silent lies.

And though its breast by ice is bound,

By bending low and listening long,

I hear a faint and far-off sound —

The echo of a summer song.

O weary heart, though cold and drear

The days along thy pathway seem,

To Nature's breast bend low thine ear

And listen to its pulsing stream.