A DUTCH WINTER.

The windmills of Holland are silent and stilled, Their whirling has ceased, for their long arms are chilled. The ice-prisoned boats are hung with a lace Of Flemish design of most delicate grace. While the watchman calls out, with a voice like a bell, The time by the tower, and adds, “All is well.” The tulips are hid ’neath a rug of soft white, They’re dreaming of spring, and the sun warm and bright. The rollicking lads, with the lassies in wake, Sweep by on their ice skates of old Friesian make, While the watchman calls out, with a voice like a bell, The time by the tower, and adds, “All is well.” In the land of the windmills, the stars one by one Slowly people the heavens, for night has begun. The rosy-cheeked babies, in nightcap and gown, Are asleep in their cradles with curtains hung down, While the watchman calls out with a voice like a bell, The time by the tower, and adds, “All is well.”

He that complies against his will Is of the same opinion still.