The Red House

On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,     And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,     When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.     Sudden as thought, or startled near bird's cry,     The whiteness of first light on hills of snow     New dropped from skiey hills of tumbling white     Streams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;     And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of white     Above slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.     By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brook     Black pigs go straggling over fields of snow;     The air is full of snow, and starling and rook     Are blacker amid the myriad streams of light.     Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet bright     Beneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,     While February moves as slow, as slow     As Spring might never come, never come March.     Amid such snows, by generations haunted,     By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,     Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,     Brightest when time silvers the world all about,     That old house called The Heart burns, burns, and still     Outbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.