The Foreigner

He walked by me with open eyes,
And wondered that I loved it so ;
Above us stretched the grey, grey skies ;
Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.
Before us slept a dark, dark wood.
Hemlocks were there, and little pines
Also ; and solemn cedars stood
In even and uneven lines.
The branches of each silent tree
Bent downward, for the snow's hard weight
Was pressing on them heavily ;
They had not known the sun of late.

There was no sound (I thought I heard
The axe of some man far away),
There was no sound of bee, or bird,
Or chattering squirrel at its play.

And so he wondered I was glad.
— There was one thing he could not see ;
Beneath the look these dead things had
I saw Spring eyes agaze at me.