A January Morning

Boris Kustodiev

A January Morning

The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn

Black chimney builds into the quiet sky

Its curling pile to crumble silently.

Far out to westward on the edge of morn,

The slender misty city towers up-borne

Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;

And yonder on those northern hills, the hue

Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.

And here behind me come the woodmen's sleighs

With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main

Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,

Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers—cheeks ablaze,

Iced beards and frozen eyelids—team by team,

With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.

Archibald Lampman

 This is as close to being transported into a scene as you get. For the length of time it takes to read the poem, I am  there. So I read it slowly.