Classic Poem

The earth seems dead; the crusted snow
Is like the marble on a tomb:
Cold, ice-clad trees, like skeletons,
Cast fitful shadows o'er the gloom.

From swaying branches weird winds strip
The frozen tears that hang on them;
And wailing voices rise and fall
In sad and solemn requiem.

The East wind, harnessed to a cloud,
Swept o'er the dismal earth to-night;
And, rushing by the half-lit moon,
With rude, rough blast put out her light.

The hungry wolf howls to the blast,
And, restless, scents each thing astir;
Oh ye, who pray at home to-night,
Pray for the poor, lost traveller!