All Seasons Blessed

The village lies in mist; the rounding hills
Are nowhere seen; the rime lies white along
The fields; and on the gable robin trills
His lone late autumn song.

The trees droop in the fog, their dank leaves fall
Sheer down, like dreaming stones that make no sound;
The unseen mill and far-off trains seem all
Beat, beating under ground.

The life of summer has gone out; but, lo!
Each season takes the heart: to-day we miss
The balmy sunshine, lightly let it go,
And turn to fireside bliss.
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