COLD
"COLD," cried the wind on the hill,
"Cold," sang the tree;
Your eyes were blue-grey and still
And cold as the sea.
Cold lay the snow on the land;
Cold stood the pine;
But neither as cold as your hand
Lying in mine.
Ah, Love, has the fire died so soon—
Just smoldered and gone;
A kiss by the light of the moon,
A parting by dawn.