Frost Song

Here where the bee slept and the orchis lifted Her honeying pipes of pearl, her velvet lip, Only the swart leaves of the oak lie drifted In sombre fellowship. Here where the flame-weed set the lands alight Lies the black upland, webbed and crowned with white.

Build high the logs, O love, and in thine eyes Let me believe the summer lingers late. We shall not miss her passive pageantries, We are not desolate, When on the sill, across the window bars, Kind winter flings her flowers and her stars.