The Fir-Tree

The winds have blown more bitter
Each darkening day of fall;
High over all the house-tops
The stars are far and small.
I wonder, will my fir-tree
Be green in spite of all?

O grief is colder—colder
Than wind from any part;
And tears of grief are bitter tears,
And doubt’s a sorer smart!
But I promised to my fir-tree
To keep the fragrant heart.