THE circling hills with snow are white:
The dark woods on their sides
Stand leafless in the low gray light,
The brown cloud o’er them glides.
The low sun chills, the cold moon stares
From out the icy east;
The young folk go, in muffled pairs,
To dancing and to feast;
And rising from the snowy roof
Into a passing fold,
The dun smoke weaves its clouded woof
Within the warp of cold.
The eaves snap and the whole house shakes;
In woodlands, shadow-crossed,
The heavy timber, groaning, quakes
Beneath the tides of frost.
The moon to western forest deeps
Sinks down, and black airs fall
Upon the land, until there creeps
A glimmering cold through all:
In frosty barns with vapors dim
The cocks alternate crow,
As lifts the sun a glowless rim
To frozen hills of snow.
C. L. Cleaveland.