The Moon, Like A Round Device On A Shadowy Shield Of War, Hangs White In A Heaven Of Ice With A Solitary Star. The Wind Is Sunk To A Sigh, And The Waters Are Stern With Frost; And Gray, In The Eastern Sky, The Last Snow-Cloud Is Lost. White Fields, That Are Winter-Starved, Black Woods, That Are Winter-Fraught, Cold, Harsh As A Face Death-Carved With The Iron Of Some Black Thought.