Breaks in the wild and bleak December morn, Across shrunk woods and pallid skies like pearl: From hooded roofs white, sinuous smoke-wreaths curl Into the clear, sharp air; great boughs, wind-torn And storm-dismantled, sway from trunks forlorn. Under stark fences, snow-mists sift and swirl, And overhead, where night was wont to hurl Her ghostly drift, white clouds, wind-steered, are borne. By drifted ways I climb the eastern hills, And watch the wind-swayed maples creak and strain; The muffled beeches moan their wintry pain; While over fields and frosty, silent rills, The breaking day the great, grey silence fills With far-heard voice and stir of life again.
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