The stars are falling, are falling,
By stream-side and meadow and wood;
They silence the whispering leaves;
And swiftly and softly they brood
The robin's lone nest in the eaves.
The stars are falling, are falling,
Yet Night has lost never a one,
Of all that are gathered below;
To-morrow they'll melt in the sun —
For these are the stars of the snow.
The stars are falling, are falling —
Look! On your sleeve is a star!
Six-pointed and perfect its form,
Six-pointed its comrades are,—
All, gems of this wonder-storm!