THE SHEPHERD WIND

When hills and plains are powdered white,

And bitter cold the north wind blows,

Upon my window in the night

A fairy-garden grows.

Here poppies that no hand hath sown

Bloom white as foam upon the sea,

And elfin bells to earth unknown

Hold frost-bound melody.

And here are blossoms like to stars

Tangled in nets of silver lace —

My very breath their beauty mars,

Or stirs them from their place.

Perchance the echoes of old songs

Found here a resting place at last

With drifting perfume that belongs

To roses of the past.

Or all the moonbeams that were lost

On summer nights the world forgets

May here be prisoned by the frost

With souls of violets.

The wind doth shepherd many things —

And when the nights are long and cold,

Who knows how strange a flock he brings

All safely to the fold.