Than anything that we have left in air;
But these still-flying shapes of snow are whiter,
I fancy, than the very lilies were.
Then, is the glimmer of fire-flies, cold and eerie,
Far in the dusk, so pleasant after all
As is this home-lamp playing warm and cheery,
Among your shadow-pictures on the wall?
But I forget. There ought to be a story,
A lovely story! Who shall tell it, then?
The boys want war—plumes, helmets, shields and