FEBRUARY
ALL the rhythms of life are slowAll the streams are choked with snow,Evening skies are pale,The very stars are still,On the long slope of the hillWoodsmoke weaves a pattern frail.No cloak, no pretense here;The earth is clean as a naked spear,Beauty is stripped bare;But she will stoop as winter lingersTo pluck arbutus with expectant fingers,And weave the cold sweet blossoms in her hair.
ALL the rhythms of life are slowAll the streams are choked with snow,Evening skies are pale,The very stars are still,On the long slope of the hillWoodsmoke weaves a pattern frail.No cloak, no pretense here;The earth is clean as a naked spear,Beauty is stripped bare;But she will stoop as winter lingersTo pluck arbutus with expectant fingers,And weave the cold sweet blossoms in her hair.
ALL the rhythms of life are slowAll the streams are choked with snow,Evening skies are pale,The very stars are still,On the long slope of the hillWoodsmoke weaves a pattern frail.
No cloak, no pretense here;The earth is clean as a naked spear,Beauty is stripped bare;But she will stoop as winter lingersTo pluck arbutus with expectant fingers,And weave the cold sweet blossoms in her hair.