IF ON this night of still, white cold, I can remember May, New green of tree and underbrush, A hillside orchard's mounting flush, The scent of earth and noon's blue hush, A robin's jaunty way; If on this night of bitter frost, I know such things can be, That lovely May is true—ah, well, I shall believe the tales men tell, Wonders of bliss and asphodel, And immortality. |