We took a walk in Winter woods,
My little lad and I,—
The hills and hollows all were pearl,
And sapphire all the sky.
Before guerilla winds we saw
The skurrying drift retreat;
We thought of budded roots that lay
Asleep beneath our feet.
We spoke of how, last year, in May,
One sunny bank we found,
Where wind-flowers stood in fairy crowds,
To charm the gladdened ground.
A subtle feeling checked the boy,—
His small hand held me back,
With mute appeal that we should tread
The wood-path’s beaten track.
“My child, ’tis pleasanter to break
New pathways as we go.”
He said, “I do not like to spoil
The beauty of the snow.”