in Thoreau’s Journal:

FAIR HAVEN 

When winter fringes every bough 

With his fantastic wreath.

And puts the seal of silence now 

Upon the leaves beneath;

When every stream in its penthouse 

Goes gurgling on its way.

And in his gallery the mouse 

Nibbleth the meadow hay;

Methinks the summer still is nigh,

And lurketh there below,

As that same meadow mouse doth lie 

Snug underneath the snow.

And if perchance the chickadee 

Lisp a faint note anon,

The snow is summer’s canopy, 

Which she herself put on.