I
The field pools gathered into frosted lace;
An icy glitter lined the iron ruts,
And bound the circle of the musk-rat huts;
A junco flashed about a sunny space
Where rose stems made a golden amber grace;
Between the dusky alders’ woven ranks,
A stream thought yet about his summer banks,
And made an August music in the place.
Along the horizon’s faded shrunken lines,
Veiling the gloomy borders of the night,
Hung the great snow clouds washed with pallid gold;
And stealing from his covert in the pines,
The wind, encouraged to a stinging flight,
Dropped in the hollow conquered by the cold.