HOW countlessly they congregate
     O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
     When wintry winds do blow!--

As if with keenness for our fate,
     Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
     Invisible at dawn,--

And yet with neither love nor hate,
     Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
     Without the gift of sight.