01 January 2019

'A January Morning' by 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,
      The slender misty city towers up-borne
      Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
      And yonder on those northern hills, the hue
      Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.
      And here behind me come the woodmen'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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