Out on the prairie—a shrieking storm!
How the pitiless cold, driven from homes and firesides warm,
In its terrible hold,
Here grapples and grips with strength untold!
Miles and miles, and nothing in sight,
Only sweeps of snow—
That under the dust of the gathering night,
Now dimmer grow—breasting the winds that fiercely blow.
Not a friendly light, not a sheltering tree,
On the prairie's breast.
And my failing feet shrink under me!
I am heavy—oppressed
With a drowsy weight; I must stop and rest.
No, I can not go on! Here I lay me down,
While the storm sweeps by;
Press on, if you can, to the sheltering town;
In peace let me lie.
I am not cold . . . only sleepy . . . good-by.