  Now swoops the wind from every coign and crest; Like filaments of silver, ripped and spun, The snow reels off the drift-ridge in the sun; And smoky clouds are torn across the west, Clouds that would snow if they had time to rest; The sparrows brangle and the icicles clash; The grosbeaks search for berries in the ash; The shore-lark tinkles while he plans his nest. Now in the steaming woods the maples drip, And plunging in with the last load of sap, Beyond the branches through a starry gap, The driver sees the frail aurora flow, And round the sinking Pleiads bend and blow; A rosy banner and a silver ship.
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