WINTRY TINTS

The sky is like an opal,

And the horizon’ s ring

Is yellow, like a band of gold,

To hold so rich a thing.

The wheat-fields are as fleecy

As any cloud that blows,

But tawny tufts of standing corn

Prick lightly through the snows.

Beside the drift-bound wind-mill

A pearly shadow plays

In tones of tender violet,

And vague, elusive grays.

And tinged with quiet olive

The hedges fine and bare,

Whose thorny masses down the road

An alien softness wear.

O, subtile chords of color

Are fingered by the frost!

Though touched and tuned to colder key,

No grace of earth is lost.

For see! a deep red ruby

The opal heaven grows,

And yonder pool of ice is one

Great golden-hearted rose!