O’er the long way home again
The roads came alive in mist,
With pow­der fresh, in rivulets
The tides of night do flow

Ever onward, creep­ing forward,
Not a step or turn in retreat,
Steer­ing true as the snow drifts
Guide me soft­ly, soft­ly home

Their shape­less, danc­ing torrents
Cry out in a vision of silent joy
And as seen by nary a traveller
They are loved by even fewer

Yet take heart, ye worn and wary
For this win­ter’s close to hand
Curl up by your hearth this eve
And feel its blan­ket over the land

And now we begin a sea­son new,
With its won­der­ment borne true,
To laugh and leap, dance and sleep
In the com­fort of her frozen hand.

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