Written on Christmas Eve, 1836

The earth is clad
For her bridal glad;
Her robe is white
As the spotless light;
O'er field and hill
Its folds are still.

From her aery throne
The moon looks down,
Clothing with glory
The tree-tops hoary,
Which glittering are
Like purest spar.

A star or two
Diamond-blue
Through the space peers
Where the vapor clears,
And in long white masses
Silently passes.

The wind is awake,
And his voice doth shake
The frost from the trees;
Then by degrees
Swells with a louder sound,
Till it dies on the level ground.