A LITTLE while ago and you might see
The ebon trees against the saffron sky
That shifts through flame to rose; but now a calm
Of solemn blue above, a stilly time,
With pines that peer and listen, while the snow
Gleams ghostly and the brittle sound of ice
Tinkles along the dumbness, strangely loud,
Since all the air is tranced. Housed-in, the folk
Close-gather at the ingle, and the hour
Of fireside cheer and homely talk of kin
Is welcomed, as the big, vague world beyond
Moves nightward, merges into mystery.