Classic Poem

Stumbling over fallen logs,
Plunging into drifts,
Seeing only whirling snow,
Fearing hidden cliffs.

Numbed with cold and feet half dead,
Dragging slowly on,
Blinded by the angry wind,
Senses almost gone.

Lost, and freezing inch by inch,
Praying for the end,
Bumping 'gainst a swaying tree?
No, it's Bill, my friend.