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Good-bye." He flung his arms around his face.
The Wood-pile
OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey day I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went down. The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tall slim trees Too much alike to mark or name a place by So as to say for certain I was here Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful To put a tree between us when he lighted, And say no word to tell me who he was Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather-- The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wis.h.i.+ng him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting, Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall. I thought that only Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks Could so forget his handiwork on which He spent himself, the labour of his axe, And leave it there far from a useful fireplace To warm the frozen swamp as best it could With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
Good Hours
I HAD for my winter evening walk-- No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their s.h.i.+ning eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within: I had the sound of a violin; I had a glimpse through curtain laces Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet Disturbed the slumbering village street Like profanation, by your leave, At ten o'clock of a winter eve.
