But snow new fallen
  On the stiffened grass
Gives back beauty stolen
  By the winds as they pass:—­
Turns the climbing hedge
  Into a gleaming ladder of frozen light: 
And hark, in the cold enchanted silence
  A cry of delight!

CHANGE

A late and lonely figure stains the snow,
  Into the thickening darkness dims and dies. 
Heavily homeward now the last rooks go,
  And dull-eyed stars stare from the skies. 
    A whimpering wind
    Sounds, then’s still and whimpers again.

Yet ’twas a morn of oh, such air and light! 
  The early sun ran laughing over the snow,
The laden trees held out their arms all white
  And whiteness shook on the white below. 
    Lovely the shadows were,
    Deep purple niches, ’neath a dome of light.

And now night’s fall’n, the west wind begins to creep
  Among the stiff trees, over the frozen snow;
An hour—­and the world stirs that was asleep,
  A trickle of water’s heard, stealthy and slow,
    First faintly here and there,
    And then continual everywhere.

And morn will look astonished for the snow,
  And the warm, wind will laugh, “It’s gone, gone, gone!”—­
And will, when the immortal soft airs blow,
  This mortal face of things change and be gone
    So—­and with none to hear
    How in the night the wind crept near?

SLEEPING SEA

The sea
Was even as a little child that sleeps
And keeps
All night its great unconsciousness of day. 
No spray
Flashed when the wave rose, drooped, and slowly drew away. 
No sound
From all that slumbering, full-bosomed water came;
The sea
Lay mute in childlike sleep, the moon was a gold candle-flame. 
No sound
Save when a faint and mothlike air fluttered around. 
No sound: 
But as a child that dreams and in his full sleep cries,
So turned the sleeping sea and heaved her bosom of slow sighs.

THE WEAVER OF MAGIC

Weave cunningly the web
  Of twilight, O thou subtle-fingered Eve! 
And at the slow day’s ebb
  With small blue stars the purple curtain weave. 
If any wind there be,
Bid it but breathe lightly as woodland violets o’er the sea;
If any moon, be it no more than a white fluttering feather. 
Call the last birds together.

O Eve, and let no wisp
  Of day’s distraction thine enchantment mar;
Thy soft spell lisp
  And lure the sweetness down of each blue star. 
Then let that low moan be
A while more easeful, trembling remote and strange, far oversea;
So shall the easeless heart of love rest then, or only sigh,
Hearing the swallows cry!

THE DARKSOME NIGHTINGALE