Some upland pasture where the Johnswort grew,
Or heard, amidst the verdure of my mind, the bee's
long-smothered hum,
So by the cheap economy of God made rich to go upon
my wintry work again.
In the still, cheerful cold of winter nights,
When, in the cold light of the moon,
On every twig and rail and jutting spout
The icy spears are doubling their length
Against the glancing arrows of the sun,
And the shrunk wheels creak along the way,
Some summer accident long past