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From where I
lingered in a lull in march
outside the sugar-house
one night for choice,
I called the fireman with a
careful voice
And bade him leave the pan and stoke
the arch:
'O fireman, give the fire another stoke,
And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.'
I
thought a few might tangle, as they did,
Among bare
maple boughs, and in the rare
Hill atmosphere not
cease to glow,
And so be added to the moon up there.
The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show
On
every tree a bucket with a lid,
And on black ground a
bear-skin rug of snow.
The sparks made no attempt to
be the moon.
They were content to figure in the trees
As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades.
And that was what
the boughs were full of soon.
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