FEBRUARY DAYS 



their last assault ; no glimmer of bright 

 waters greets the sun ; no keel is afloat ; 

 the lighthouse, its occupation gone, 

 stares day and night with dull eyes from 

 its lonely rock, upon a silent deserted 

 waste. 



In the wood you may hear no sound 

 but your own muffled footsteps, the 

 crackle of dry twigs, and the soft swish 

 of boughs swinging back from your pas- 

 sage, and now and then a tree punctuating 

 the silence with a clear resonant crack 

 of frozen fibres and its faint echo. You 

 hear no bird nor squirrel nor sound of 

 woodman's axe, nor do you catch the 

 pungent fragrance of his fire nor the 

 subtler one of fresh-cut wood. Indeed, 

 all odors of the forest seem frozen out 

 of the air or locked up in their sources. 

 No perfume drops from the odor-laden 

 evergreens, only scentless air reaches 

 your nostrils. 



One day there comes from the south 

 a warm breath, and with it fleets of 

 white clouds sailing across the blue 

 upper deep, outstripped by their swifter 

 shadows sweeping in blue squadrons 

 along the glistening fields and darkening 

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