The lakelet lay winding, a mirror of ice,
The snows were on Ossipee's head,
As the northernbound train, with its pauses concise,
Through the clear Winter picture-land sped.

December! New England! The wind and the snow!
Keen blade and white sheath on the hill!
Yet the sun's full of gold, and the meadows, I know.
Preserve their warm hearts in them still.

Ancestral recallings—the frost and the sun—
The clear, lancing wind—the pure sky—
Made lines of loved song through old memory run,
And “Whittier, thou!” murmured I.