  Cold till Doom! Glowers more fearfully the gloom! Each gleaming furrow is a river, A loch in each ford's room. Each pool is deepened to a perilous pit, A standing-stone each plain, a wood each moor; The clamouring flight of birds no shelter finds, White snow winds towards the door. Like to a spectral host each sharp slim shape, Each leaping lake swelled to a mighty main; Wide as a wether's skin each falling flake, Shield-broad, each drop of rain. Swift frost again hath fastened all the ways, It strove and struggled upwards o'er the wold, About Colt's standing-stone the tempest sways, Shuddering, men cry, "'Tis cold!" |
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