V

Foot to fire in snowtime we trimmed the slender shaft: Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teeth Grin against his will, trapped by masterstrokes of craft; Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! Safe the tender lambs tugged the teats, and winter sped Whirled before the crocus, the year’s new gold. Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead Reddened through his feathers for our dear fold. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.