Classic Poem

The spirits of the North were out last night,
Weaving their wizard spells on plain and hill;
The moon arose and set and gave no light,
The river freezing in the reeds grew still;
The shuddering stars were hid behind the cloud,
And all the hollow winds were wailing loud.

Where stood the ricks, three antique temples stand,
Like those whose alabaster domes are seen
In old Benàres, or far Samarcand,
Half hid in groves of lime and citron green.
With slender minarets whose crystal spires
Burn in the sun with keen, prismatic fires.

The pine is like a tall cathedral tower,
With oriels of withered ivy-vines
Entwined in sculptured shapes of wreath and flower
Through which the clear, red stain of morning shines;
And underneath, the snow-draped shrubs and briars
Seem kneeling groups of silent, white-robed friars.

No stone or bush but wears a rare device
Of graceful semblance or ideal form,
Fair fantasy, or sumptuous edifice;
As if the wayward Ariels of the storm
Had blent the magic arts of Prospero
With their own whims, and wrought them in the snow.