Ii

February

Gray-muffled to his eyes in rags of cloud, His whip of winds forever in his hand, Driving the herded storms along the land,-- That shake the wild sleet from wild hair and crowd Heaven with tumultuous bulks,--he comes, low-browed And heavy-eyed; the hail, like stinging sand, Whirls white behind, swept backward by his band Of wild-hoofed gales that o’er the world ring loud. All day the tatters of his dark cloak stream Congealing moisture, till in solid ice The forests stand; and, clang on thunderous clang, All night is heard,--as in the moon’s cold gleam Tightens his grip of frost, his iron vise,-- The boom of bursting boughs that icicles fang.