When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That over-brows the lonely vale.
O’er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.Longfellow
Walking through the snowy woods at sunset…Watercolour on Arches Not Paper..