White are the far-off plains, and white

The fading forests grow;

The wind dies out along the height,

And denser still the snow

A gathering weight on roof and tree,

Falls down scarce audibly

The meadows and far-sheeted streams

Lie still without a sound;

Like some soft minister of dreams

The snow-fall hoods me round;

In wood and water, earth and air

A silence everywhere

Save when at lonely intervals

Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,

With rustling runners and sharp bells

Swings by me and is gone;

Or from the empty waste I hear

A sound remote and clear

The barking of a dog, or call

To cattle, sharply pealed,

Borne echoing from some wayside stall

Or barnyard far afield;

Then all is silent and the snow falls

Settling soft and slow

The evening deepens and the grey

Folds closer earth and sky

The world seems shrouded, far away.

Its noises sleep, and I as secret as

Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

~ Music by Loreena McKennitt. Words by Archibald Lampman

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