Why sing of suns you cannot see, in vain? -- Here where dull day from night scarce diff'rent pales, And fog as grisly as a dead man's nailsFreezes opaquely at the window pane;
Here where the laughter and the living eye Of dormant water, blind and mute beneath The black ice-shell, like spirits after deathSteal unadmired their passage. Down the sky
Like fruitless seed of seasons overblown, The fluff-winged atomies tumble and amass, Muffling the pale and sapless winter grassUnder a clammy still oblivion.
Too slight to fall, we drift with every phase, We start and scuffle, playthings of the air; Then with a shuddering whisper of despairGo out like snowflakes in a woodman's blaze.
