Classic Poem

There is no sound in the woods to-day
Hushed by the falling snow,
Only the tree tops whispering
To all the winds that blow.

I will lie down with a dark old pine
Singing above my head,
Silver birch at my tired feet,
Snow for my feather bed;

All that I have at my journey's end,
A broken dream to show—
All that I ask, a place to lie
Under the drifting snow.