Breaks in the wild and bleak December morn,
Across shrunk woods and pallid skies like pearl:
From hooded roofs white, sinuous smoke-wreaths curl
Into the clear, sharp air; great boughs, wind-torn
And storm-dismantled, sway from trunks forlorn.
Under stark fences, snow-mists sift and swirl,
And overhead, where night was wont to hurl
Her ghostly drift, white clouds, wind-steered, are borne.
By drifted ways I climb the eastern hills,
And watch the wind-swayed maples creak and strain;
The muffled beeches moan their wintry pain;
While over fields and frosty, silent rills,
The breaking day the great, grey silence fills
With far-heard voice and stir of life again.