Now, while thus the storm and fir-trees
Held such converse with each other,
Could be heard a horse's footfall.
Toiling through the snow-piled wood-path
Seeks his way a weary horseman;
Gaily flutters in the storm-wind,
To and fro, his long gray mantle,
His fair curling locks are waving,
And, from out the cocked-up hat there
Boldly nods a heron's feather.