There are no comrade roses at my window,
No green things in the lane;
Upon the roof no sibilant soft patter-
The lullaby of rain;
Without is silence, and within is silence,
Till silence grows a pain.

Within is silence, and without is silence,
The snow is on the sill,
In snow the window wreath'd instead of roses,
And snow is very still....
I wonder is it singing in the grasses,
The rain, on Russian Hill?