Classic Poem

Thin clouds are vanishing slowly. Overhead
The stars melt in the wakening sky; and, lo,
Far on the blue band of the eastern snow
Sober and still the morning breaks, dull red
Innumerable smoke wreaths curl and spread
Up from the snow-capped roofs. From the gray north
A little wind that bites like fire creeps forth.
The purple mists along the south hang dead.
Out of the distance eastward, frosty, still,
Where soon the gold-shower of the sun shall be,
A file of straggling snowshoers winds aslant,
Across the dull blue river, up the hill,
Toward the dusk city plodding silently,—
The jaded enders of some midnight jaunt