A spiteful snow pit through the bitter day In little stinging pellets gray, And crackling on the frozen street About the iron feet, Broad stamped in massy shoes Sharpened and corked for winter use, Of the huge Norman horses plump and round, In burnished brass and shining leather bound, Dragging each heavy fetlock like a mane, And shaking as they pull the ponderous wain With wheels that jar the ground In a small earthquake, where they jolt and grind, And leave a span-wide track behind: And hunched upon the load Above the Company's horses like a toad, All hugged together Against the pitiless weather, In an old cardigan jacket and a cap Of mangy fur, And a frayed comforter Around his stiffened chin, too scant to wrap His purple ears, And in his blinking eyes what had been tears, But that they seemed to have frozen there ere they ran, The Company's man. |