Zero

The gate, on ice-hoarse hinges, stiff with frost, Croaks open; and harsh wagon-wheels are heard Creaking through cold; the horses’ breath is furred Around their nostrils; and with snow deep-mossed The hut is barely seen, from which, uptossed, The wood-smoke pillars the icy air unstirred; And every sound, each axe-stroke and each word, Comes as through crystal, then again is lost. The sun strikes bitter on the frozen pane, And all around there is a tingling,--tense As is a wire stretched upon a disk Vibrating without sound:--It is the strain That Winter plays, to which each tree and fence, It seems, is strung, as ’twere of ringing bisque.

ON THE HILLTOP.

There is no inspiration in the view. From where this acorn drops its thimbles brown The landscape stretches like a shaggy frown; The wrinkled hills hang haggard and harsh of hue: Above them hollows the heaven’s stony blue, Like a dull thought that haunts some sleep-dazed clown Plodding his homeward way; and, whispering down, The dead leaves dance, a sere and shelterless crew. Let the sick day stagger unto its close, Morose and mumbling, like a hoary crone Beneath her faggots--huddled fogs that soon Shall flare the windy west with ashen glows, Like some deep, dying hearth; and let the lone Night come at last--night, and its withered moon.