Bitter Chill

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 censor 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 Saint Agnes," l. 1-9, in John Keats: Everyman's Poetry (London: Orion, 1996).

All right, so it's not quite this cold in Auckland this morning, but it's not far off...

http://victorianweb.org/art/illustration/wehnert/7.jpg