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Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
As zigzag wavering to and fro
The white drift piled the window-frame,
So all night long the storm roared on:
In starry flake, and pellicle,
And, when the second morning shone,
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
And, close at hand, the basket stood
What matter how the night behaved?
Their written words we linger o'er,
No step is on the conscious floor!
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust,
The stars shine through his cypress-trees!
That Life is ever lord of Death,
And Love can never lose its own!