A January Morning 

The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn

Black chimney builds into the quiet sky

Its curling pile to crumble silently,

Far out to the westward on the edge of morn,

The slender misty city towers up-borne

Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;

And yonder, on those northern hills, the hue

Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.

And here behind me come the woodmen's sleighs

With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main

Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,

Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers- cheeks ablaze,

Iced beards and frozen eyelids- team by team,

With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.

-Archibald Lampman