This is the first soft snow That tiptoes up to your door As you sit by the fire and sew, That sifts through a crack in the floor And covers your hair with hoar. This is the stiffening wound Burning the heart of a deer Chased by a moon-white hound, This is the hunt, and the queer Sick beating of feet that fear. This is the crisp despair Lying close to the marrow, Fallen out of the air Like frost on the narrow Bone of a shot sparrow. This is the love that will seize Savagely onto your mind And do whatever he please, This the despair, and a moon-blind Hound you never bind.
