At twelve o'clock tonight, When every house is dark, Who ride the roads alone? The winds of winter. Hark! The moon is clear above, The earth is hard below; And with a little dust They drive a little snow. They make the maples roar, The withered flowers hiss, Along the way they go On such a night as this. The winds usurp the earth, And even safely housed, Folk must cling fast to sleep Not to be oft aroused. |