The Snow Man

The wind blows out of the sky,
Lofty, as we float and drop,
Impossible, it divines its way;
Blowing the hills like slow-blown lines,
With only an eye to the arched air—
And the depth beneath them falls and stirs,
We, caught in shadows tremble—. Each form of the cold seems now.

The ice suggests another winter
Each touch renders the human touch brave,
And slight, bearing it round steadily,
Broken of its wildness the sound of the wind;
It always falls a winter to death.

• Wallace Stevens