THE MOON IN WINTER

Where the still woods wait in the frozen dark, And the stars are shaken from icy fingers, The moon hangs low, a luminous spark, A lantern for dreams where the shiver lingers.

Amidst the thick branches, it bathes the ground, In shimmering light that the frost seems to weave, A silver thread through the silence profound, A comfort, a promise, on this eve of leave.

Through wisps of the clouds like soft floating flakes, It glides like a ghost in the cold air laid bare, In this quiet embrace, the last heart breaks, Before morning’s chrysalis, soft as despair.

• Hope Mirrlees