The moon, like a round device
On a shadowy shield of war,
Hangs white in a heaven of ice
With a solitary star.
The wind is sunk to a sigh,
And the waters are steeled with frost;
And gray in the eastern sky
The last snow-cloud is lost.
White fields, that are winter-starved;
Black woods, that are winter-fraught;
And Earth like a face death-carved
With the iron of some black thought.
AN OLD SONG
I
It’s, Oh, for the hills, where the wind’s some one
With a vagabond foot that follows!
And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon
Your arm with the hearty words, “Come on!
We’ll soon be out of the hollows,
My heart!
We’ll soon be out of the hollows!”
II
It’s, Oh, for the songs, where the hope’s some one
With a renegade foot that doubles!
And a kindly look that he turns upon
Your face with the friendly laugh, “Come on!
We’ll soon be out of the troubles,
My heart!
We’ll soon be out of the troubles!”