LOOKING FOR A SUNSET BIRD IN WINTER
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he west was getting out of gold,The breath of air had died of cold,When shoeing home across the white,I thought I saw a bird alight. In summer when I passed the placeI had to stop and lift my face;A bird with an angelic giftWas singing in it sweet and swift. No bird was singing in it now.A single leaf was on a bough,And that was all there was to seeIn going twice around the tree. From my advantage on a hillI judged that such a crystal chillWas only adding frost to snowAs gilt to gold that wouldn't show. A brush had left a crooked strokeOf what was either cloud or smokeFrom north to south across the blue;A piercing little star was through.
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