As green as emerald.
And through the drifts, the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen,
Nor shapes of men, nor beasts we ken.
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around,
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound.
Or Tennyson’s lovely simile, wherein he says that we ourselves are like