But in the east the grey and motionless woods,
Watching the great sun’s fiery slow decline,
Grew deep with gold.  To westward all was silver. 
An hour had passed above me; I had reached;
The loftiest level of the snow-piled fields,
Clear eyed, but unobservant noting not,
That all the plain beneath me and the hills
Took on a change of colour, splendid, gradual,
Leaving no spot the same; nor that the sun
Now like a fiery torrent overflamed
The great line of the west.  Ere yet I turned
With long stride homeward, being heated
With the loose swinging motion, weary too,
Nor uninclined to rest, a buried fence,
Whose topmost log just shouldered from the snow,
Made me a seat, and thence with heated cheeks,
Grazed by the northwind’s edge of stinging ice,
I looked far out upon the snow-bound waste,
The lifting hills and intersecting forests,
The scarce marked courses of the buried streams,
And as I looked I list memory of the frost,
Transfixed with wonder, overborne with joy. 
I saw them in their silence and their beauty;
Swept by the sunset’s rapid hand of fire,
Sudden, mysterious, every moment deepening
To some new majesty of rose or flame. 
The whole broad west was like molten sea
Of crimson.  In the north the light-lined hills
Were veiled far off as with a mist of rose
Wondrous and soft.  Along the darkening east
The gold of all the forests slowly changed
To purple.  In the valley far before me,
Low sunk in sapphire shadows, from its hills,
Softer and lovelier than an opening flower,
Uprose a city with its sun-touched towers,
A bunch of amethysts.

Like one spell-bound
Caught in the presence of some god, I stood,
Nor felt the keen wind and the deadly air,
But watched the sun go down, and watched the gold
Fade from the town and the withdrawing hills,
Their westward shapes athwart the dusky red
Freeze into sapphire, saw the arc of rose
Rise ever higher in the violet east,
Above the frore front of the uprearing night
Remorsefully soft and sweet.  Then I awoke
As from a dream, and from my shoulders shook
The warning chill, till then unfelt, unfeared.

STORM

Out of the grey northwest, where many a day gone by
  Ye tugged and howled in your tempestuous grot,
And evermore the huge frost giants lie,
  Your wizard guards in vigilance unforgot,
Out of the grey northwest, for now the bonds are riven,
On wide wings your thongless flight is driven,
  That lulls but resteth not.

And all the grey day long, and all the dense wild night
  Ye wheel and hurry with the sheeted snow,
By cedared waste and many a pine-dark height,
  Across white rivers frozen fast below;
Over the lonely forests, where the flowers yet sleeping
Turn in their narrow beds with dreams of weeping
  In some remembered woe;