O, what wonders the day hath brought, Born of the soft and slumbrous snow! Gradual, silent, slowly wrought; Even as an artist, thought by thought, Writes expression on lip and brow.
Hanging garlands the caves o'erbrim, Deep drifts smother the paths below; The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, And all the air is dizzy and dim With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow.
Dimly out of the baffled sight Houses and church-spires stretch away; The trees, all spectral and still and white, Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, And fade and faint with the blinded day.
Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled The eddying drifts to the waste below; And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world Lies dumb and white in a trauee of snow.
Slowly the shadows gather and fall, Still the whispering snow-flakes heat; Night and darkness are over all: Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!
Clouds may thicken, aud storm-winds breathe: On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,— Land of my longing!—and underneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home!
O, what wonders the day hath brought, 
O, what wonders the day hath brought, 