A moment in the rude arms of the blast—
The snowy-footed madly rushing past—
And then sprung up again, as when o’erleap
Rich showers of harmony Heaven’s rampart steep,
And, star-like, from on high
Far-trailing down the sky,
Strike mortals mad, or wild:
So the pale Boreal Child
Sang to the soul of Naught, that brooded o’er
Lone semi-annual nights, and days as long,