The strum of the strings, stolen by howls
of the frozen wind in fields forsaken
the snow that stills the sound of the harp,
and smothers the song that sudden dies.
Wrathful the white and wild storm
bends the barren and battered trees,
blinding brighter than burnished silver
burning colder over each crested hill.
The weary wanderer finds no warmth
naught but the numb and noiseless cold.
Falling forlorn the memory fades
of hopeful halls and homeward paths
buried beneath the banks of snow.
