No hawk hangs over in this air:
 The urgent snow is everywhere.
 The wing adroiter than a sail
 Must lean away from such a gale,
Abandoning its straight intent,
 Or else expose tough ligament
 And tender flesh to what before
 Meant dampened feathers, nothing more.

Forceless upon our backs there fall
 Infrequent flakes hexagonal,
 Devised in many a curious style
 To charm our safety for a while,
   Where close to earth like mice we go
   Under the horizontal snow.