Chapter XVI

But summer's golden pastures boast no trail So splendid as our fretted snowshoes blaze Where, sharp across the amethystine ways, Iron Ascutney looms in azure mail, And, like a frozen grail, The frore sun sets, intolerably fair; Mute, in our homebound snow-tracks, we exhale The silvery cold, and soon -- where bright logs flare -- Talk the long indoor hours, till embers fail.