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Robert Frost (1874–1963). A Boy’s Will. 1915.

6. Stars

HOW countlessly they congregate

O’er our tumultuous snow,

Which flows in shapes as tall as trees

When wintry winds do blow!—

As if with keenness for our fate,

Our faltering few steps on

To white rest, and a place of rest

Invisible at dawn,—

And yet with neither love nor hate,

Those stars like some snow-white

Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes

Without the gift of sight.