Oh, I'm weary of the snow heaps on the hillside
And I'm weary of the bitter, barren sky;
Lonely winds are calling through the hemlocks,
And the shifting dead leaves shiver at their cry.
Yesterday, - to-morrow, - in the hemlocks,
Little winds of summer laughing low,
But I'm weary of the frozen, moaning branches,
And the endless, dreary wastes of drifting snow.