Zero

The gate, on ice-hoarse hinges, stiff with frost, Croaks open; and harsh wagon-wheels are heard Creaking through cold; the horses' breath is furred Around their nostrils; and with snow deep mossed The hut is barely seen, from which, uptossed, The wood-smoke pillars the icy air unstirred; And every sound, each axe-stroke and each word, Comes as through crystal, then again is lost. The sun strikes bitter on the frozen pane, And all around there is a tingling, tense As is a wire stretched upon a disc Vibrating without sound: It is the strain That Winter plays, to which each tree and fence, It seems, is strung, as 't were of ringing bisque.