Second Winter-Song
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!"