The winter's storms have all but hid from view --
      this cabin.
Naught but its roof protrudes above the drifts.
And through the "chinkin" in the logs from which
      its builded
The windblown snow -- hard frozen pellets -- sifts.

But bleak, forlorn and lonesome that it seems
To us it marks an end to weary, wintry miles.
A warm and cheery fire, rest and "grub" it means --
To fit us for morrow's daily grind.

----------

How quickly can the hand of Boreas change
Familiar scenes of summer's brilliant days.
But just as quickly can the breath of Spring
Disperse the snow and coax the flowers forth again.