But see, across yon barren swell
Where wind and snow-rime weave a spell
Of phantoms o'er the hill,
What awkward creatures of the night
Come creeping, snail-like, on the sight,
Halting and slow, in weary plight
But ever onward still?
Their limbs are long and lank and thin,
Their forms are swathed from foot to chin
In garments rude of bison skin.