by Robert Frost
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 neith lave nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.