Inviolate

We took a walk in Winter woods, My little lad and I,— The hills and hollows all were pearl, And sapphire all the sky.

Before guerilla winds we saw The skurrying drift retreat; We thought of budded roots that lay Asleep beneath our feet.

We spoke of how, last year, in May, One sunny bank we found, Where wind-flowers stood in fairy crowds, To charm the gladdened ground.

A subtle feeling checked the boy,— His small hand held me back, With mute appeal that we should tread The wood-path’s beaten track.

“My child, ’tis pleasanter to break New pathways as we go.” He said, “I do not like to spoil The beauty of the snow.”