Classic Poem

Across the West the angry clouds are torn, —
Their scattered fragments streak the livid sky;
On the wide river, by the blizzard borne,
The scudding white-caps fly.

Upon the eaves the cold has hung his spears
Where late the ivied sparrows held their choir;
Sharp on the bleak ridge of the hill appears
The dagger of the spire.

With wolf-pelts wrapped about his shaggy head,
And body swathed in pallid, arctic hides,
Lo, o'er the white, with stealthy, polar-tread,
The Savage, — Winter, — strides!