On tree-trunks black, ’mid orchard-blossoms white—
Just as the phospherent merman, struggling home,
Jewels his fire-paths in the tides at night
While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam.
And, in the winter, when the leaves are dead
And the first snow has carpeted the street,
While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red,
And young eyes glisten with youth’s fervor sweet—
My pen will cut in snow my hopes of yore,