A January Morning

The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn  
  Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
  Its curling pile to crumble silently.
  Far out to westward on the edge of morn,
  The slender misty city towers up-borne
  Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
  And yonder on those northern hills, the hue
  Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.
  And here behind me come the woodmen's sleighs
 With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main
 Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,
 Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers—cheeks ablaze,
 Iced beards and frozen eyelids—team by team,
 With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.