Mist-shrouded priests do ancient rites;
The black ram's fleece is stained with blood,
That steams, dull red on the frozen ground;
And pale votaries shiver with the cold,
That numbs the earth, and etches patterned mirrors on the ponds.
"WHAN THAT APRILLE ..."
Is it the song of a meadow lark
Off the brown, sere salt marshes,