Were this a whisper kept low, soft; as though Winter sun shadow-sifted, tossed amidst The sweep of scattered limb and splintered bough, A gentle breeze that under canopies Of icicles had crept, so soon dismissed By idle cardinal's chatter in the eaves- Never, no. Insistent instead; a pitch high and clear, To shake some constant evergreen alight, Awake, aware; needle-sharp, piercing drear And dulled alike that were culled of glisten In fiercest dark of bare, blanched friendless night. This, then; from whistling wind to branch: listen, Hearken, hear.