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| Archibald Lampman |
The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn
Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
Its curling pile to crumble silently,
Far out to westward, on the edge of morn,
Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
And yonder, those northern hills, the hue
Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn,
And here behind me come the woodman's sleighs
With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main
Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,
Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers--cheeks ablaze,
Iced beards and frozen eyelids--team by team,
With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.
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