The Prospect

The twigs of the birch imprint the December sky
    Like branching veins upon a thin old hand;
I think of summer-time, yes, of last July,
    When she was beneath them, greeting a gathered band
            Of the urban and bland.

Iced airs wheeze through the skeletoned hedge from the north,
    With steady snores, and a numbing that threatens snow,
And skaters pass; and merry boys go forth
    To look for slides.    But well, well do I know
            Whither I would go!