from "December Woods" by Florence Miller

I think if you could walk with me, one day,
Along the path that skirts the little wood,
Enchanting in its brooding attitude
Of happy secrets safely put away;
And I should show you sleeping spring-buds curled
In lacquered sheathes against December's cold;
And tiny fiddle-heads, close in the fold
Of withered fern-leaves, each securely furled;
Carpets of vivid moss, like emerald plush;
And stains on weathered rocks that softly glow
With grave, grey loveliness through sifting snow...
Oh there, within that winter-scented hush,
I think, as we two paused, with bated breath,
You would believe again...There is no death!