A mist that froze beneath the moon and shook Minutest frosty fire in the air.

All night the wind was still as lonely Care Who sighs before her shivering ingle-nook.

The face of Winter wore a crueler look Than when he shakes the icicles from his hair, And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stare Freeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook.

He is the despot now who sits and dreams Of Desolation and Despair, and smiles At Poverty, who hath no place to rest, Who wanders o'er Life's snow-made pathless miles, And sees the Home-of-Comfort's window gleams, And hugs her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.

IN WINTER

I.

When black frosts pluck the acorns down, And in the lane the waters freeze; And 'thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies, And death sits grimly 'mid the trees; When home-lights glitter in the brown Of dusk like s.h.a.ggy eyes,-- Before the door his feet, sweetheart, And two white arms that greet, sweetheart, And two white arms that greet.

II.

When ways are drifted with the leaves, And winds make music in the thorns; And lone and lost above the frost The new moon shows its silver horns; When underneath the lamp-lit eaves The opened door is crossed,-- A happy heart and light, sweetheart, And lips to kiss good-night, sweetheart, And lips to kiss good-night.

ON THE FARM

I.

He sang a song as he sowed the field, Sowed the field at break of day: "When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yield Balm and balsam, and Spring,--concealed In the odorous green,--is so revealed, Halloo and oh!

Hallo for the woods and the far away!"

II.

He trilled a song as he mowed the mead, Mowed the mead as noon begun: "When the hills are gold with the ripened seed, As the sunset stairs that loom and lead To the sky where Summer knows naught of need, Halloo and oh!

Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!"

III.

He hummed a song as he swung the flail, Swung the flail in the afternoon: "When the idle fields are a wrecker's tale, That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale, As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail, Halloo and oh!

Hallo for the fields and the hunter's-moon!"

IV.

He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe, Shouldered his axe in the evening storm: "When the snow of the road shows the rabbit's tracks, And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks, With a herdsman's cry, o'er the clouds' black backs, Halloo and oh!

Hallo for home and a hearth to warm!"

PATHS

I.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- The path that takes me, in the spring, Past quinces where the blue-birds sing, Where peonies are blossoming, Unto a porch, wistaria-hung, Around whose steps May-lilies blow, A fair girl reaches down among, Her arm more white than their sweet snow.

II.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- Another path that leads me, when The summer-time is here again, Past hollyhocks that shame the west When the red sun has sunk to rest; To roses bowering a nest, A lattice, 'neath which mignonette And deep geraniums surge and sough, Where, in the twilight, starless yet, A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.

III.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that takes me, when the days Of autumn wrap themselves in haze, Beneath the pippin-pelting tree, 'Mid flitting b.u.t.terfly and bee; Unto a door where, fiery, The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued, The c.o.c.k's-comb and the dahlia flare, And in the door, where shades intrude, Gleams out a fair girl's sunbeam hair.

IV.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that brings me o'er the frost Of winter, when the moon is tossed In clouds; beneath great cedars, weak With s.h.a.ggy snow; past shrubs blown bleak With shivering leaves; to eaves that leak The tattered ice, whereunder is A fire-flickering window-s.p.a.ce; And in the light, with lips to kiss, A fair girl's welcome-giving face.

A SONG IN SEASON

I.

When in the wind the vane turns round, And round, and round; And in his kennel whines the hound; When all the gable eaves are bound With icicles of ragged gray, A glinting gray; There is little to do, and much to say, And you hug your fire and pa.s.s the day With a thought of the springtime, dearie.

II.

When late at night the owlet hoots, And hoots, and hoots; And wild winds make of keyholes flutes; When to the door the goodman's boots Stamp through the snow the light stains red, The fire-light's red; There is nothing to do, and all is said, And you quaff your cider and go to bed With a dream of the summer, dearie.

III.

When, nearing dawn, the black c.o.c.k crows, And crows, and crows; And from the barn the milch-cow lows; And the milkmaid's cheeks have each a rose, And the still skies show a star or two, Or one or two; There is little to say, and much to do, And the heartier done the happier you, With a song of the winter, dearie.

APART