The Golden Darkness/I

​I.
When the snow steals through the forest like moonlight,
 And the wind is filled with a silvery drift
Like moonlight crushed to a keen, fine powder
 That the trees' black fingers are trying to sift,
When the frost burns bright in the living eyes,
 And the world is beautiful and hushed and white,
I shall leave my roof, and crawl back, a dark
 Unholy thought through the silvery night.

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