Chapter II: February

Gray-muffled to his eyes in rags of cloud,
His whip of winds forever in his hand,
Driving the herded storms along the land,--
That shake the wild sleet from wild hair and crowd
Heaven with tumultuous bulks,--he comes, low-browed
And heavy-eyed; the hail, like stinging sand,
Whirls white behind, swept backward by his band
Of wild-hoofed gales that o’er the world ring loud.
All day the tatters of his dark cloak stream
Congealing moisture, till in solid ice
The forests stand; and, clang on thunderous clang,
All night is heard,--as in the moon’s cold gleam
Tightens his grip of frost, his iron vise,--
The boom of bursting boughs that icicles fang.