LAST comes December with his ruffian wind
Whirled from the maelstrom of the polar sea
To sweep our mighty hill in mockery
Of such enshrouding snows as would be kind
And wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly lined
Through thin and crackling ice the leaves lie stark
As hoar Caina’s ice-locked souls, and dark
In the dark air the branches toss and grind.
Then dawns another day when winds are still;— George Allan England
From our frost-flashing village on the hill
We greet the laggard sun, and far below
All down the valley see the silver spread,
Save where the dim fir-forest’s pungent bed
Lies thatched by tufted pine-plumes bright with snow.