Snowtime

Is it summer that you crave-

Swallows dipping wing,

Evening light across the wave-

Or some farther thing?

Some report of happier places-

Golden times and lands,

New and wonder-laden faces,

New and eager hands?

Nay, you know not . . . But I know

Round you cold is furled,

Like this shroud of trampled snow

Smothering the world:

Where no trust in any spring

Now can heal or save,

Nor the icy sunlight bring

Swallows o'er the wave.