The whited pumice of the storm
Is over house and hill
Or drifted into shroudlike form
About the ruined mill.
The fences hide beneath the drifts;
The snowy terraces
Ascend to where the hemlock lifts
Its virgin-broidered dress.
The trackless highway challenges
The sweltered caravan
Of traffic and in fastnesses
Of chalk imprisons man.
The wind-wolves howl at cottage-door
Or down the chimney leap;
The windows all are rimed with hoar
Where frozen fingers creep.
The house-frame groans at blast and frost
Like quarry of the pack
O’ertaken, but though torn and tossed
Still stout of heart and back;
Still stout of heart like us secure
By ruddy fire warm,
Too humbly thankful to be poor
While sheltered from the storm.