I.

ST. AGNES´ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp´d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman´s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem´d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin´s picture, while his prayer he saith.

"The Eve of St. Agnes"
John Keats