THE farm-house fire is dull and black,
The trailing smoke rolls white and low
Along the fields till by the wood
It banks and floats unshaken, slow;
The scattering sounds seem near and loud,
The rising sun is clear and white,
And in the air a mystery stirs
Of wintry hosts in coward flight.
Anon the south-wind breathes across
The frozen earth its bonds to break,
Till at the call of life returned
It softly stirs but half awake.
The cattle clamor in their stalls,
The house-dog barks, he knows not why,
The cock crows by the stable door,
The snow-birds, sombre-hued, go by.
The busy housewife on the snow
To bleach lays out her linen store,
And scolds because with careless feet
The children track the spotless floor.
With nightfall comes the slow warm rain,
The purl of waters fills the air,
And save where roll the gleaming drifts
The fields lie sullen, black and bare.
