SNOW

The moon, like a round device

On a shadowy shield of war,

Hangs white in a heaven of ice

With a solitary star.

The wind is sunk to a sigh,

And the waters are stern with frost;

And gray, in the eastern sky,

The last snow-cloud is lost.

White fields, that are winter-starved,

Black woods, that are winter-fraught,

Cold, harsh as a face death-carved

With the iron of some black thought.