Snow in the Village

Not thus on street and garden, roof and spire,
The snow, for ages, here was yearly spread;
It tipt the Indian's plume of bloody red,
And melted, hissing, in his council-fire;
It gave an impress to the panther's tread,
And all the monster feet that filled the wood.
But now the snow of whiter towns and faces
Has drifted o'er the glorious solitude;
And death and silence, like a winter, brood
Upon the vanished brute and human races.
So let oblivion come, till it effaces,
Oh weary soul, thy summer's maddest mood,
Thus o'er thy woes let silence softly fall,
And Winter, with a holy beauty, vail them all.