Francis Joseph Sherman (1871–1926)

HE walked by me with open eyes,

And wondered that I loved it so;

Above us stretched the grey, grey skies;

Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.

Before us slept a dark, dark wood.

Hemlocks were there, and little pines

Also; and solemn cedars stood

In even and uneven lines.

The branches of each silent tree

Bent downward, for the snow’s hard weight

Was pressing on them heavily;

They had not known the sun of late.

*****

There was no sound (I thought I heard

The axe of some man far away),

There was no sound of bee, or bird,

Or chattering squirrel at its play.

And so he wondered I was glad.

—There was one thing he could not see;

Beneath the look these dead things had

I saw Spring eyes agaze at me.