At last we reached the pointed firs And rested for a little while; The light of home was in her smile And my cold hand grew warm as her's.
Behind, across the level snow, We saw the half-moon touch the hill Where we had felt the sunset; still Our feet had many miles to go.
And now, new little stars were born In the dark hollows of the sky:— Perhaps ( she said ) lest we should die Of weariness before the morn.
Once, when the year stood still at June, At even we had tarried there Till Dusk came in — her noiseless hair Trailing along a pathway strewn
With broken cones and year-old things, But now, tonight, it seemed that She Therein abode continually, With weighted feet and folded wings,
And so we lingered not for dawn To mark the edges of out path; But with such home a blind man hath At midnight, we went groping on.
— I do not know how many firs We stumbled past in that still wood: Only I know that once we stood Together there — my lips on her's.
Between the midnight and the dawn We came out on the farther side; — What if the wood was dark and wide? Its shadows now here far withdrawn,
And O the white stars in the sky! And O the glitter of the snow!— Henceforth we know our feet should know Fair ways to travel — she and I —
For One — Whose shadow is the Night — Unwound them where the Great Bear swung And wide across the darkness flung The ribbons of the Northern Light.
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