Trees, vales, and cliffs, in sparkling snows arrayed,
Dissolve in silvery rain.
Without, the day’s pale glories sink and swell
Over the black rise of yon wooded height;
The moon’s thin crescent, like a stranded shell,
Left on the shores of night.
Hark how the north wind, with a hasty hand,
Rattling my casement, frames his mystic rhyme.
House thee, rude minstrel, chanting through the land,
Runes of the olden times.