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| THE SUN that brief December day | |
| Rose cheerless over hills of gray, | |
| And, darkly circled, gave at noon | |
| A sadder light than waning moon. | |
| Slow tracing down the thickening sky | 5 |
| Its mute and ominous prophecy, | |
| A portent seeming less than threat, | |
| It sank from sight before it set. | |
| A chill no coat, however stout, | |
| Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, | 10 |
| A hard, dull bitterness of cold, | |
| That checked, mid-vein, the circling race | |
| Of life-blood in the sharpened face, | |
| The coming of the snow-storm told. | |
| The wind blew east; we heard the roar | 15 |
| Of Ocean on his wintry shore, | |
| And felt the strong pulse throbbing there | |
| Beat with low rhythm our inland air. | |
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| Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,— | |
| Brought in the wood from out of doors, | 20 |
| Littered the stalls, and from the mows | |
| Raked down the herd’s-grass for the cows; | |
| Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; | |
| And, sharply clashing horn on horn, | |
| Impatient down the stanchion rows | 25 |
| The cattle shake their walnut bows, | |
| While, peering from his early perch | |
| Upon the scaffold’s pole of birch, | |
| The cock his crested helmet bent | |
| And down his querulous challenge sent. | 30 |
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| Unwarmed by any sunset light | |
| The gray day darkened into night, | |
| A night made hoary with the swarm, | |
| And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, | |
| As zigzag wavering to and fro | 35 |
| Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow; | |
| And ere the early bedtime came | |
| The white drift piled the window-frame, | |
| And through the glass the clothes-line posts | |
| Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. | 40 |
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| So all night long the storm roared on: | |
| The morning broke without a sun; | |
| In tiny spherule traced with lines | |
| Of Nature’s geometric signs, | |
| In starry flake, and pellicle, | 45 |
| All day the hoary meteor fell; | |
| And, when the second morning shone, | |
| We looked upon a world unknown, | |
| On nothing we could call our own. | |
| Around the glistening wonder bent | 50 |
| The blue walls of the firmament, | |
| No cloud above, no earth below,— | |
| A universe of sky and snow! | |
| The old familiar sights of ours | |
| Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers | 55 |
| Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, | |
| Or garden-wall, or belt of wood; | |
| A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, | |
| A fenceless drift what once was road; | |
| The bridle-post an old man sat | 60 |
| With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; | |
| The well-curb had a Chinese roof; | |
| And even the long sweep, high aloof, | |
| In its slant splendor, seemed to tell | |
| Of Pisa’s leaning miracle. * * * * * | 65 |
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