I Sought the Wood in Winter

I sought the wood in summer When every twig was green; The rudest boughs were tender, And buds were pink between. Light-fingered aspens trembled In fitful sun and shade, And daffodils were golden In every starry glade. The brook sang like a robin— My hand could check him where The lissome maiden willows Shook out their yellow hair. “How frail a thing is Beauty,” I said, “when every breath She gives the vagrant summer But swifter woos her death. For this the star dust troubles, For this have ages rolled: To deck the wood for bridal And slay her with the cold.” I sought the wood in winter When every leaf was dead; Behind the wind-whipped branches The winter sun set red. The coldest star was rising To greet that bitter air, The oaks were writhen giants; Nor bud nor bloom was there. The birches, white and slender, In deathless marble stood, The brook, a white immortal, Slept silent in the wood. “How sure a thing is Beauty,” I cried. “No bolt can slay, No wave nor shock despoil her, No ravishers dismay. Her warriors are the angels That cherish from afar, Her warders people Heaven And watch from every star. The granite hills are slighter, The sea more like to fail; Behind the rose the planet, The Law behind the veil.”