Through wood, and through vale; and o’er rocky height,
Which the great cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you may plainly see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There’s never a scholar anywhere knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp ’larum; but, if you should look,
There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow,
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,