Classic Poem

Far out, a fair storm at night of snow
Hath filled the air and sought the cozy woe;
O phantom frost, what can this be — shade?
Can this be likened unto my careless aid?
Thus, here must I take what truth denies,
As the distant hill bemourns its ties;
Now this is yet vague to be content.
What should be told can be but lent —
So telling seems here to swim my brow.
Perchance, you know better, eyes meet now,
But who is so listless as the poet's faith endows? —
The value of waste is what he brightens? Vows
That charm must bend to will's belief
Whate'er you chose, be it death, life's thief.