Winter Song
The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale—snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow—drifts flamed and flowed.
From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun—brown and the summer—gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft—going.
