| HOW countlessly they congregate | |
| O’er our tumultuous snow, | |
| Which flows in shapes as tall as trees | |
| When wintry winds do blow!— | |
| As if with keenness for our fate, | 5 |
| Our faltering few steps on | |
| To white rest, and a place of rest | |
| Invisible at dawn,— | |
| And yet with neither love nor hate, | |
| Those stars like some snow-white | 10 |
| Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes | |
| Without the gift of sight. |
Robert Frost
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