“ White grooves our trackers leave behind as o'er the snow they tear. The driver shouts — our fiery steeds, obedient to his cry, Through clouds of glitt' ring ice-dust like two angry dragons fly. On plains, o'er which kind Nature's hand a fleecy sheet has flung, Tree islands stand out darkly. Hark! the hounds are giving tongue! Through winter's mantle crocuses their spikes are thrusting now, And in the woods the squirrel peeps and leaps from bough to bough. 'Tis nightfall. How the watch-dogs bark! The moon begins to rise; White branches meet above our heads ”
