And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.
“But when, in the forest bare and old,
The blast of December calls,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.
“For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,
In the cold and cloudless night?