Winter Heavens

 Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive
Leap off the rim of earth across the dome.

It is a night to make the heavens our home
More than the nest whereto apace we strive.

Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive,
In swarms outrushing from the golden comb.

They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam:
The living throb in me, the dead revive.

Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath,
Life glistens on the river of the death.

It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt,
Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs
Of radiance, the radiance enrings:
And this is the soul's haven to have felt.

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