Frigidaire

Even in July it is our winter corner,

hill 70 of our kitchen, rising white

and cool to the eye, cool to the alpenfinger.

The shadows and wind of snowfall fall from its sides.

And when the door swings away, like a cloud blown,

the village is Laurentian, tiered and bright,

with thresholds of red, white roofs, and scattered greens,

'and it has a sky, and clouds, and a northern light.

Is peopled. On its vallied streets there stands

a bevy of milk, coifed like the sisters of snow;

and beaded bosoms of butter; and red farmhands;

all poised, as if to hear from the distant meadow,

there on the heights, with its little flowers of white,

the cubes that seem to sound like pasture bells.

Fixed to that far-off tingle they don't quite

hear, they stand, frozen with eavesdropping, like icicles.

O, there on the heights, the storm's electric, thriving

with muffled thunder, and lightning, slow and white!

It is a private sky, a weather exclusive,

a slow, sensational, and secret sight.