The bleak faced Winter, with his braggart winds
(Coiled to his scrawny throat in tattered black),
Posts down the highway of his late domain,
His spurs like leeches in his bleeding hack.
He rides to reach the huge embattled hills
Where all the brooding summer he may lie
Engulfed in Kosciusko’s silent snow,
His shadow waving o’er the lofty sky.