_The Desire Of The Moth For The Star._

The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep, Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air, Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere. No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering, But in her garden--risen from Summer's tomb To bear the gospel of eternal Spring-- The Christmas roses bloom.

O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain, Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways-- Ah that such dreams should always be in vain! We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour, Too chill to let the redder roses blow, We, too, had our delicious hidden flower That blossomed in life's snow.

O heart, if we again might hope to be Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white! If dreams and deeds might but be one to me, And one to thee be duty and delight! If that may ever be, one hand we know Must beckon us along the way she goes, The hand of her--as pure as any snow, And sweet as any rose.

II.