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The browns,
the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up
to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun
till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for
them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the
snow-drifts flamed and flowed.
From off your
face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the
summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with
spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows
falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall
be soft-going.
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