This snow up here, it will be free from blame For it will leave in beauty as it came.
The sun will loosen all the bonds That bind the baby-sapling’s fronds Close to the ground,
And they’ll rebound.
The ice-locked creek will show its green And swirling eddies in between The marble bridges flung across Its twisted banks of moss.
Each day will see new colors peep;
Gray bark and green—the deep
Rich sheen of laurels—short, stalky grapes,
Stiff, jagged, red—and twisted shapes Of leaves turned russet, shrivelled, sere—
Still dangling from the stems of the dead year— All penciled bold against the bright,
Cold snow, like patterns on a page of spotless white.
And each new day will leave some strange,
Blue arabesque upon the eastern range.
Drag streaks of ochre down the fields, and shade The purple brush-lands deeper where they fade Off to the west, and pools of melting snow will hold The winter evening sun’s last splash of gold.
THE PRUNER
Tonight—that crook that’s got his shoulder- blade
Is pruner’s luck—a man’s arm isn’t made To reach and twist all day without some bit Of ache to take home with him when he’s quit. That wind-tan and the stubble-growth of beard That’s cropped out on his chin and gotten smeared
Around his throat, they do a useful turn—
They temper cold and dull the bright snow- burn.
It snowed this morning when he went away With those big bear-paws on—it snowed all day;
And though his sleeves and neck are soaked a lot
With all the constant reaching up, it’s not So bad—the snow—for when it’s four feet deep Or so, a pruner doesn’t have to keep That raking stretch. Another day and night.
If it keeps up like this, will fix it right.
All yesterday it rained—he didn’t stop,
Just went ahead and pruned—and let it drop. The day before was sun—a blinding glare On snow—it’s amber goggles then and they’re Forever getting fogged. Of course a day Gets sort of tucked in now and then that may
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