William Sharp

The air is blue and keen and cold, With snow the roads and fields are white; But here the forest's clothed with light And in a shining sheath enrolled. Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass, Seems clad miraculously with glass: Above the ice-bound streamlet bends Each frozen fern with crystal ends.

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing: O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing. Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still, But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.