The snow is so near,
And so bare is the bough!

A great flood is flashing
Athwart the wide lee;
Like a storm-struck encampment,
The clouds rend and flee;
At the scourge of the storm
My cot quakes with affright;
Far better the hearth
Than the pavement to-night!
Our Father, forget not
The homeless outcast;
So thin is his raiment,
So bitter Thy blast!

The foam-flakes are whirling
Below on the strand,
As white as the pages
I turn with my hand;
And the curlew afar,
From his storm-troubled lair,
Laments with the cry
Of a soul in despair.
Our Father, forget not
Our mariners' state;
Their ships are so slender,
Thy seas are so great.