Hush, hush, the snow on the brush,
	Alone in the silver hill;
Shuffle, crunch, the powdery bunch
	Now lost in the winter’s will.

The empty trees were stuck in the freeze
	As posts of some old home;
Its roof was white as the cloudy light
	That shone on the snowy foam.

Hush, below, the mumbling flow,
	The shallow, crackling creek;
Through roots and shale it was dug in the dale
And all of its surface was solid and frail
And speckled with prints of a paw or a tail
	Of creatures, hidden and meek.

And feeling the flush, the blood in my blush,
	The shivering warmth in my chest,
I walk with all, the thrush and his call,
	The world, awake and at rest.