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?
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
In forms so lovely and hues so bright?