Motions of waking trouble winter air,

I wonder, and his face as it were forms

Solemn, canorous, under the howled alarms,—

The eyes shadowed and shut.

Certainly for this sort of thing it is very late,

I shudder, while my love longs and I pour

My bright eyes towards the moving shadow … where?

Out, like a plucked gut

What has been taken away will not return,

I take it, whether upon the crouch of night

Or for my mountain need to share a morning’s light,—

No! I am alone.

What has been taken away should not have been shown,

I complain, torturing, and then withdrawn.

After so long, can I still long so and burn,

Imperishable son?

O easy the phoenix in the tree of the heart,

Each in its time, his twigs and spices fixes

To make a last nest, and marvellously relaxes,—

Out of the fire, weak peep! …

Father I fought for Mother, sleep where you sleep!

I slip into a snowbed with no hurt

Where warm will warm be warm enough to part

Us. As I sink, I weep.