Winter in New Hampshire’s Woods

Winter like a selfish child

 throws itself against the walls,

the ancient walls of country church,

 and whistles through the wooden halls

where humble hearts of broken souls

 seek to find revivement there

and lay before the altar steps

 a world of trial, world of care;

Winter like a storm at sea

 washes over country hills

and through the sleeping woods it wails

 to try the wandering Yankees’ wills

of all on skis or snowshoes stalking

 silent forests, set in white,

finding solace in the hollows,

 finding spirit in the light;

Winter like a love-struck artist

 paints the river lands in gray

and blue of dusky falling shadows

 fading gentle with the day,

and I, so like that star-crossed lover,

 loving jealous winter’s work,

walk with pen the snowy woods

 and hide where star-crossed poets lurk.