Whether the eave-drops fall / Heard only in the trances of the blast, / Or if the secret ministry of frost / Shall hang them up in silent icicles, / Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column; / In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.
Advice is like snow; the softer it falls the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind.