XVII—WINTER

In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane

The redbreast looks in vain

For hips and haws,

Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane

The silver pencil of the winter draws.

When all the snowy hill

And the bare woods are still;

When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,

And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,

Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs—

More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!

Saranac Lake.