Henry David Thoreau

Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong, 
Which asks no duties and no conscience? 
The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path 
In some far summer stratum of the sky, 
While stars with their cold shine bedot her way. 
The fields gleam mildly back upon the sky, 
And far and near upon the leafless shrubs 
The snow dust still emits a silver light. 
Under the hedge, where drift banks are their screen, 
The titmice now pursue their downy dreams, 
As often in the sweltering summer nights 
The bee doth drop asleep in the flower cup, 
When evening overtakes him with his load. 
By the brooksides, in the still, genial night, 
The more adventurous wanderer may hear 
The crystals shoot and form, and winter slow 
Increase his rule by gentlest summer means.

spoken = Arion Alston