It is already February,
As the snow drifts and lattices
The cheek, as frost corners
The plane turns of surfaces.

The winter must reach its trough,
Before spring comes to urge
The pulse of bud and trial, before
The arc of expiration completes.

It may be peace, I think, this
Quiet night with the storm outside,
This silent looking into another face,
Drawn in tender lines of tiredness.

The winter must reach its end,
If the routes between our minds
Intend, or if the way to love disappoints
Utterly, and the leaves, like tears, begin bright.