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Time of cold

The flame is fallen. Gray-brown ashes blow Around the tree-boles and across the field Desolate brown after the hidden yield Of rhythmic bending grass. Figment of snow, Still undecided, flickering and slow, Only suggests material that will build Late ramparts and low battlements to shield Roots from the deep frost burrowing below. This is the gray and lean and hungry time; The wolf moon circles coldly in high heaven; And at the frozen window where we stood Watching the silent imperceptible climb, Familiar assurances were given Of shelter at the fireside of the blood.

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