Prince of the cold and the master of the boreal winds,
Frigid is his throne and numbing are his bitter hyms.
Biting is his verse about his gelid and untamed heart,
and chilling is the wind's whipping chorus that whistles its own part.
He stalks alone in the dark, carried aloft on wintery blasts,
creeping along unseen, as he travels along his glacial paths.
His procession is solitary and bleak, adorned with a mantle of few hues
of a luminous crystaline white, and trimmed in many shades of cerulean blue.
Though his form is often veiled and hidden, his cutting presence is always keenly felt,
and in his realm one must gird themselves from being bitten with a heavy coat or furry pelt.
He assails unguarded noses and fingers, nipping at them 'til they are rosy and red,
and punishes those who in the cold linger, robbing thei