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.

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