Through the shadows cold and dreary,
Where the wind wails wild and weary,
I embarked from Boston's harbor,
Under skies as dark as lore.
Onward through the snow-bound valley,
Where no sun would dare to rally,
Lay the road—a solemn whisper
Stretching far to Worcester's door.
The trees, like phantoms, looming, swaying,
In the biting gusts were praying,
And the frost upon the branches
Gleamed like spectral, haunted spore.
Each step deeper, darker, colder,
Winds grew fierce, the night grew bolder,
'Til my breath became an echo,
Bound to haunt the frozen floor.
Yet, through all this grim desolation,
Rose a dreadful fascination—
What, I thought, does winter mutter
In this land of ancient lore?
In its hush, a voice did tremble,
Soft yet firm, as if to assemble
All the secrets of the ether
In the darkened woods I bore.
"Fear not, traveler, your endeavor;
Winter's grasp is not forever.
Though the frost may nip your spirit,
Spring shall greet you, evermore."
Thus I pressed, though frost did sting me,
Past the gates that seemed to ring me,
'Til the lights of Worcester beckoned
Through the snow-clad, weary yore.
Though the journey's chill may linger,
Its touch a spectral finger,
Still I carry in my spirit
Winter's tale forevermore.
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