White are the far-off plains, and white br The fading forests grow; br The wind dies out along the height, br And denser still the snow, br A gathering weight on roof and tree, br Falls down scarce audibly. br br The road before me smooths and fills br Apace, and all about br The fences dwindle, and the hills br Are blotted slowly out; br The naked trees loom spectrally br Into the dim white sky. br br The meadows and far-sheeted streams br Lie still without a sound; br Like some soft minister of dreams br The snow-fall hoods me round; br In wood and water, earth and air, br A silence everywhere. br br Save when at lonely intervals br Some farmer's sleigh, urged on, br With rustling runners and sharp bells, br Swings by me and is gone; br Or from the empty waste I hear br A sound remote and clear; br br The barking of a dog, or call br To cattle, sharply pealed, br Borne echoing from some wayside stall br Or barnyard far a-field; br Then all is silent, and the snow br Falls, settling soft and slow. br br The evening deepens, and the gray br Folds closer earth and sky; br The world seems shrouded far away; br Its noises sleep, and I, br As secret as yon buried stream, br Plod dumbly on, and dream.