How low the white, crescent moon Lies rocking, gently brooding, Crooning in the night. Where are the stars? The fickle little crystals, frozen calm, Seem to tinkle in the wind -- The gusts whip snow needles Biting down deserted ways -- The birch skeletons crackle knotty knuckles As they cast dancing shadows on the snow banks. The world's a hollowed ice-drum With echoes bounding brittle in Its amazing clarity of cold. |