Of such a keen, inclement sky.
“So faint I am, these tottering feet
No more my palsied frame can bear;
My freezing heart forgets to beat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.
“Open your hospitable door,
And shield me from the biting blast:
Cold, cold it blows across the moor,
The weary moor that I have passed!”
With hasty steps the farmer ran,