There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle of snow,
And tracks on the ground. Three boys below
The low eave listened. We burst through the door,
And a girl baby cried,—and then we were four.
We were not sturdy, and we were not wise
In the things of the world, and the ways men dare.
A pale-browed mother with a prophet’s eyes,
A father that dreamed and looked anywhere.
Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall-fashioned as men
And we mingled with none, but we lived as when