When the hills are white with snow
And the woods all brown between,
When the winds have a voice of woe
And the sunlight a frosty sheen,

Up from the river-side,
Up from the lone deep vale,
Where the wintry waters glide
Past the willow-isle's icy trail,

Where yon huge chimneys stand,
Whence the flame-based smoke rolls high,
And the merry sparkles, fanned
By the wind, in tumult fly,

Rises a clash and a clang,
Rises a tumult and roar;
The song that the Titans sang
Resounds by the river-shore.

But ever and ever swells
An undertone strong and low,
That dwells and dwells and dwells
In one continual flow.

Not with the cheery ring
Of the steel upon the stone,
Not as the sad waves sing
Through boughs despoiled and lone,

But with stern voice yet benign,
Like the swell of a heaving sea,
Its soul breathes into mine
A grander melody.

And deep within my spirit
I catch the self-same tone;
Through life's long din I hear it
Steadily sounding on.

And I joy in that music grand,
Passionless, earnest, high;
For I know that a Higher hand
Has attuned that melody.