FROST.
STILL the retreating air files cold and thin Up the moon-channels to her frosty light. The wind, icebom, has sighed out its complaint, Rustling the oak leaves, few, and sere, and worn. For miles no foot has stirred, no furry pad Sealed the cold acres of unruffled snow. Man has not passed, no wheel, no hoof. The road Sleeps quilted, sleeps beneath the moon, whose eyes Explore the earth. Branch-shadows follow her Stealthily, moving as the blue veins move Beneath the skin's night-pallor, when a child Sleeps, and the sentinel heart keeps watch within. Sometimes a lonely wing deep in the hedge Flutters in sleep, and snowdust from the deep Floats into light, and all is quiet again. Only the stars are eager ; fiercely bright, They burn like hunger, prowling in the dark, Glinting from icicle and frosted bough, Illusive lights, cold, cold as death.
! woodsmoke from the valley, bittersweet, Scenting the air It is an acrid sign. The curtained window and the yellow lamp ; Perfume, colour, warmth The night „hordes vanish ; Summer is waiting on that cottage hearth.
RICHARD CHURCH.
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