Sonnets of the Season

WHEN I came home across the moonlit land,
Through pastures where the rabbit burrows go,
Frail ghosts of goldenrod on every hand
Stood delicate against the drifted snow.
And when I brushed against the withered weeds
I heard a sudden spate of whispered words,
The sift and patter of a thousand seeds,
The casual harvest of the cheerful birds.
The snowbound junipers like igloos arched
Their woody mazes, making tiny lairs
For field mice. Past the trees the drifts had marched
In sculptured furrows, frozen thoroughfares.
And in those quiet streets and lonely alleys
The little trails led over hills and valleys.

WE MUST have more than light, that gave its pledge
Three fortnights back to shrive the dying year.
We must have warmth who shiver on the edge
Of our new seintillant ionosphere.
Well, it has come. The delicate new moon
Hangs over maples filled with secret thought
Which yet the squirrel guessed this afternoon
And bit the buds to taste what time had wrought.
The evening falls, but something is astir:
The systole within the faithful heart.
And while the campus darkens to a blur,
With cosmic sigh the winter falls apart,
While in the heaven the hunter, backward leaning,
Hears winter’s dirge, the Dog Star’s mournful keening.