Stars
Robert Frost (1874--1963)

How countlessly they congregate
    O'ver our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as tree
    when wintry winds do blow!--

As if with keenness for our fate,
    Out faltering few steps on
To white rest, and 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.