Iv

Here, when the snow was flying, And barren boughs were sighing, In icy January, I stood, like some gray tree, lonely and solitary. Now every spine and splinter Of wood, washed clean of winter, By hill and canyon Makes of itself an intimate companion, A confidant, who whispers me the dreams That haunt its heart, and clothe it as with gleams. And lonely now no more I walk the mossy floor Of woodlands where each bourgeoning leaf is matched, Mated with music; triumphed o’er Of building love and nestling song just hatched.