The morning sun shows like a
Of fire through smoke on frosty days.
As on a faulty snap, it
Make out my features in the haze.
The distant trees will hardly see
Until the sun at last can
Out of the fog, and flash
Upon the meadows by the lake.
A passer-by in mist
Is recognized when he has passed.
You walk on hoarfrost-covered
As though on mats of plaited bast.
The frost is covered up in gooseflesh,
The air is false like painted cheeks,
The earth is shivering, and sick
Breathing potato-stalks for weeks.
