The Eve of St. Agnes

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the beadsman’s fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosty breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Hied to the chapel’s mirrored flambeaux, and blazed.

There could be no moan, even though the turbulent wind’s sigh; There could be no sound, the stately chimney’s roar, So that with infinite voices here to know The same tempest, that stirred the pearl-edged lands, Hushed on the little mountain, or the hush’d waveless lake.

To the moon swings a rosary fixed high, The ancient willow-staff and the iron door. Come fairies then, and watch till the morning sighs, But sustain the tear, honor the venerable day.

• John Keats