ht'
Had-been-heap'|ing-field'|and-high'|way
With-a-si'|lence-deep'|and-white'

The scansion of the sixth stanza may be shown as follows:

Up-spoke'|our-own'|lit-tle-Ma'|bel
Say-ing-Fa'|ther-who-makes'|it-snow'
And-I-told'of-the-good'|All-Fa'|ther
Who cares'|for-us-here'|be-low'

They are musical stanzas, and the finely chosen words add much to the
melody.

D. _Sentiment._ Lowell had a little daughter, Blanche, who died shortly
before this poem was composed, so we may be sure that it was written
from a full heart. He begins by giving us one of the most beautiful
pictures of a snow-storm and of a snow-covered world that was ever
written.

(Compare Lowell's other description of winter to be found in the second
part of _The Vision of Sir Launfal_ and Whittier's description in
_Snow-Bound_.)

When he has made us feel the softness, gentleness and beauty of the snow
and caused us to forget that it is cold and damp, he speaks of himself.
We can see him sitting by the window looking out upon the beautiful
pearl-clad world. He brings us right into his own presence and we can
almost see the flocks of startled brown snowbirds whirling by. Not till
now, when we are fully in sympathy with him, does he let us know that he
has met with a deep, heart-breaking loss. Now we know what the soft
flakes are hiding from sight, and our hearts go out with his.

Then his innocent little daughter comes in with the simple, commonplace
question which he answers so touchingly. Can you not see him with his
arm around the child, telling her of the care of the Father who loves
little children so dearly? Yet his mind cannot free itself wholly from
his first great sorrow, though he remembers that calmness, resignation,
and gentle patience fell over his heart as the soft snow falls flake by
flake from the leaden sky.

To the child, however, he speaks words that she will not fully
understand until she, too, is grown and has met with sorrow: "It is only
the merciful Father, darling, who can make fall that gentle comfort that
heals and hides all suffering."

Once more our hearts are wrung with sympathy when with tear-filled eyes
he gives the little maiden by his side the kiss that was for the silent
lips in sweet Auburn. The little one, kissing back, could not know the
grief of her father's heart or realize that another form than hers was
clasped in his embrace.

How much better we know the great poet when he tells u