Change

A poem by John Frederick Freeman

A late and lonely figure stains the snow,
Into the thickening darkness dims and dies.
Heavily homeward now the last rooks go,
And dull-eyed stars stare from the skies.
A whimpering wind
Sounds, then's still and whimpers again.

Yet 'twas a morn of oh, such air and light!
The early sun ran laughing over the snow,
The laden trees held out their arms all white
And whiteness shook on the white below.
Lovely the shadows were,
Deep purple niches, 'neath a dome of light.

And now night's fall'n, the west wind begins to creep
Among the stiff trees, over the frozen snow;
An hour--and the world stirs that was asleep,
A trickle of water's heard, stealthy and slow,
First faintly here and there,
And then continual everywhere.

And morn will look astonished for the snow,
And the warm, wind will laugh, "It's gone, gone, gone!"--
And will, when the immortal soft airs blow,
This mortal face of things change and be gone
So--and with none to hear
How in the night the wind crept near?