We feel the prick of ice beneath our toes,
The mat of frost upon our clothes.

We taste upon our lips the piquant air
That brings exhilaration rare.

We see the raging wind tear clouds to shreds
That tumble down upon our heads.

We tread white rolling ground, its drift and fold
Like unmade beds with covers cold.

We hear the tree that stands against the sky,
"In spite of all, I will not die."

1975? (revised)