See, now, this filigree: ’tis snow,
Shaped, in the void, of heavenly dew;
On winds of space like flower to blow
In a wilderness of blue.

Black are those pines. The utter cold
Hath frozen to silence the birds’ green woods.
Rime hath ensteeled the wormless mould,
A vacant quiet broods.

Lo, this entranced thing!—a breath
Of life that bids Man’s heart to crave
Still for perfection: ere fall death,
And earth shut in his grave.