Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener,

Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener;

And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging,

Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is sing— mg.

Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden

Garlanded with her hopes—rather the woman laden

With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living, '

Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving.

Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places,

The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces;

Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing

and dreaming, We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the

homelight is gleaming.