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.