Time passes and the day shivers;
Not a sound in vicinity.
Pine needle in nude sleep quivers,
White cloak upturned, serenity.
The Hunter's feet are growing late,
His brow entrenched with frozen snow;
Yet, in ambush, he has to wait,
Till gleeful spring makes flowers grow.
He listens to the silence of
cold's espoused vale, in wilful wish:
Why not his talking, babbling world,
Perhaps be quite as quiet as this?
If only winter's stretching arm,
Could muffle tongues, and rumours sink,
And then would I, without alarm,
Finally, get to hear me think.