When wordless winds wail, cold their desperate cry,
we huddle round the glowing stove and wait
for frost to festoon eaves and window glass,
the chill to reach deep into flesh and bone.
Yet in the meadows life goes on the same,
when wordless winds wail cold their desperate cry.
The netted stars hang frozen in the black,
unseen, though glitter fills the night with light;
we huddle round the glowing stove and wait.
Sunrise will come and break the fastest hold,
the longest night ends diamond-prismed bright
in frost that festoons eaves and window glass.