by Walt Whitman
Sounds of the winter too,
Sunshine upon the mountains—many a distant strain
From cheery railroad train—from nearer field, barn, house,
The whispering air—even the mute crops, garner'd apples, corn,
Children's and women's tones—rhythm of many a farmer and
An old man's garrulous lips among the rest, Think not we give
Forth from these snowy hairs we keep up yet the lilt.
Note: A recitation can be heard here.