Ere he can pause to think.
Cold as the efforts of the dead,
The needle-atom'd air,
Impinged upon the limbs that shrink.
On shivering shanks, and eyelids pink,
And bound its bands about the head,
And chill'd the underwear.
The frost that held us in its grip,
Would raise the prisoning paw,
And Nature, like a mouse set free,