Come, my spirit, let us pace the old lawn And crunch the frost-bound, whitened grass.
See the white lace spider's web locking the hasp of the garden gate See the privet hedges sleeping under their white down cover. The summer-house at the end of the lawn Looks like a small snow-queen's palace Let us not go in: The stacked summer chairs and tables—
What a coat of dust must be on them by now! Beyond the west hedge see the flower-beds, Some are covered with white-sprinkled straw And the trees in the little orchard south of us, Some with straw skirts, And all standing straight and proud in their white clothing, Like fair women in their fox.or ermine furs.
But everything seems to sleep; It is all so silent.
Where are the voices that used to vivify it all? Where is that voice like a convent bell We learned our own first words of?
Tread softly; that faint murmur I hardly hear, Is it the brush of her gently-gliding feet Beside me on the crisp, white lawn T pace with my memory-laden spirit?
Joun Lortine, Christmas 1922
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.