The poem
WHEN cold December Froze to grisamber The jangling bells on the sweet rose-trees-- Then fading slow And furred is the snow As the almond's sweet husk-- And smelling like musk. The snow amygdaline Under the eglantine Where the bristling stars shine Like a gilt porcupine-- The snow confesses The little Princesses On their small chioppines Dance under the orpines. See the casuistries Of their slant fluttering eyes-- Gilt as the zodiac (Dancing Herodiac). Only the snow slides Like gilded myrrh-- From the rose-branches--hides Rose-roots that stir.