The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn <br /> Black chimney builds into the quiet sky <br /> Its curling pile to crumble silently. <br /> Far out to westward on the edge of morn, <br /> The slender misty city towers up-borne <br /> Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue; <br /> And yonder on those northern hills, the hue <br /> Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn. <br /> And here behind me come the woodmen's sleighs <br /> With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main <br /> Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain, <br /> Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers—cheeks ablaze, <br /> Iced beards and frozen eyelids—team by team, <br /> With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-january-morning/
