St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

[John Keats, 'The Eve of St Agnes']