The pineboughs sloughing their snow-sheathes,
Snow sloping to snow on the skirt of the forest;
No one to see it, the quiet drama,
Winter's afterthought, following the blizzard.
The patter of gulls' feet on the ice Was another sound.
These were a [...]
As I looked up the steep hillside To the beechwood comb along the ridge,
I saw the rich full moon upride Above the branching prongs.
Her edge Was brittle with the fingering frost.
The air was broken too; it cut My eyes, until the sight was lost—
The dying beauty and the proud ascension!
Hark! Hark! What human story changes In the far air of spirit, gathers cloudwise And drops in rain of sound, sound purposeful,
Shapely, by the will of craft fashioned At its outpouring into forms of memory,
Birth . . . marriage . . . death;
Sorrow . . . joy . . , sorrow."
So murmur the millwaters,
Turning the wheel beneath.
Today and tomorrow,
These are here and coming,
The fall and foaming.
The quiet lies [...]