.
At first the world, seems on hire,
Threads chill through leaves on fire,

Black ponds grow still under sun,
In opens, slowest silence begun,

Smokey clouds in sweep overlook,
Clime of frosts branched under foot,

Cold winds come and with heaves,
Shattered froze crockery of leaves,

In icy banks bare rivers run out,
Snap as they steam into a knout

And in tawnys of soggy marshes,
Colours grow grey, wet and harsher,

In blisters to come winter shores,
A creatures huddle to frozen floors,

Above are trailings of birds who flee,
Below are underlings rooted in tree,

In sheets of white a graveyard blows,
Black stones piercing the first snows.