Synopsis

‘Tis the hour when white-horsed Day Chases Night her mares away; When the Gates of Dawn (they say) Phoebus opes: And I gather that the Queen May be uniformly seen, Should the weather be serene, On the slopes. When the ploughman, as he goes Leathern-gaitered o’er the snows, From his hat and from his nose Knocks the ice; And the panes are frosted o’er, And the lawn is crisp and hoar, As has been observed before Once or twice.