First snow-dust on golden hills;
First cold blast with little chills;
Young Winter sweeps a wing so light
That ere it’s noon he’s out of sight.
And then comes sun, and then comes night.
The stars like many snow-drops gleam
To make believe it was a dream,
But I say, “No, that wing was real,
And I am eager, fain to feel
Winter’s dust on buried hills,
Winter’s blast with freezing chills!