The Frozen Ground Looks Gray. 'Twill Shut The Snow Out From Its Bosom, And The Flakes Will Fall Softly And Lie Upon It. The Hushed Flow Of The Ice-Covered Waters, And The Call Of The Cold Driver To His Oxen Slow, And The Complaining Of The Gust, Are All That I Can Hear Of Music - Would That I With The Green Summer Like A Leaf Might Die? So Will A Man Grow Gray, And On His Head The Snow Of Years Lie Visibly, And So Will Come A Frost When His Green Years Have Fled, And His Chilled Pulses Sluggishly Will Flow, And His Deep Voice Be Shaken - Would That I In The Green Summer Of My Youth Might Die!