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.