February

Gossamer-frail, the moon Goes down the skies of days; Vague winds are on the noon, Blown from the wandering vales of cloudland far away. They come, and hardly stir The dell-grown grasses high; But in the pine and fir, As in my musing heart, I hear a tender sigh. Fragile as dreams, afloat Between the earth and skies, Beyond serene, remote, Blue-folded hills the fair And moon-white mountains rise. In woodland shadows deep The firstling flowers blow; And in my heart I keep A love that also came After the frost and snow.