THE BEAM

The dead white on the fields’ dead white

Turned the peace to misery.

Tall bony trees their wild arms thrust

Into the cold breast of the night.

Brightly the stars shone in their dust.

The hard wind's gust

Scratched like a bird the frozen snow.

Against the dead light grew the gold,

Lifting its beam to that high dust;

The lamp within the hut's small pane

Called the world to life again.

Arms of the trees atremble thrust

Defiance at the cold

Night of narrow shrouding snow.

A human beam, small spear of light,

Lifting its beauty to that high

Indifference of starry dust.

The aching trees were comforted,

And their brave arms more deeply thrust

Into the sky.

Earth's warm light fingered the dead snow.