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 keeness 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.