Tell me, whether is it winter?
Say how long my sleep has been?
Have the woods, I left so lovely,
Lost their robes of tender green?
Is the morning slow in coming?
Is the night-time loth to go?
Tell me, are the dreary mountains
Drearier still with drifted snow?
'Captive, since thou sawest the frost,
All its leaves have died away;
And another March has woven
Garlands for another May.
'Ice has barred the Arctic waters,
Soft southern winds have set it free;
And once more to deep green valley
Golden flowers might welcome thee.'
Watching in this lonely prison,
Shut from joy and kindly air,
Heaven, descending in a vision,
Taught my soul to do and bear.
It was night, a night of winter;
I lay on the dungeon floor,
And all other sounds were silent,
All, except the river's roar.