The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts


The Brook in February


A snowy path for squirrel and fox,
    It winds between the wintry firs.
Snow-muffled are its iron rocks,
    And o’er its stillness nothing stirs.

But low, bend low a listening ear!

    Beneath the mask of moveless white
A babbling whisper you shall hear
    Of birds and blossoms, leaves and light.