This Is the Season

Here in the early dusk, in a warm room lit

Only by the insatiate flames sucking the dry bough

On the hearth, silent save for the snap and spit

Of the fire and the fingers of winter at the pane

Tapping ... tapping . . . here if never again

Peace wins the heart, claiming its ardent vow.

This is the hour of the mind, as the body rests

In the arms of warmth, shut in and secure

From lean-jawed evils that slink on treacherous quests

Through the nameless dark.

(Listen! The flint on flint of mind and the precious spark

Leaps to the shavings . . . blow . . . and the heart is sure.)

This is the winter, the season of talk and sleep,

Contentment with roof and the sturdy thickness of walls...

Be not deceived, my heart! Soon the twilight falls

Less early, the cat grows restless, and strange excitements

creep

Into the air . .. Where is peace now and its quiet pledge?

The sun laughs! Robins strut! And grass, in a sharp green

wedge,

Assails the retreating snow.

Let them go,

All the philosophies, the delusions of safety, the sterile desire

for content.

Let them run with the melting ice, flooding the gutters, spent

At last in the sea . . . For the heart is song,

Giddy, gone mad if you will, with the challenging mirth

Of April. Oh, terribly wrong

Seems the winter now, with its bleak defiance of earth.