Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber (1814–1890)

NOW white and beautiful creation lies,

Nursing its struggling germs beneath the veil;

On rushing wings the fairy snow-flake flies,

Urged by the breath of the on-hurrying gale.

Now jingling bells thrill wildly on the ear,

As vying coursers dart along the way,

Now rise in chorus tones of blithest cheer,

As beams the moon with calm, untroubled ray.

I bless the snow! How fair its glittering sheen,

How pure and holy is its pearly light!

Clad in its robe, the earth looks like a queen

In the chaste vesture of her bridal night.

’T is passing fair,—yet hardly fair is that,—

An avalanche, confound it, crushes in my hat!