Love Song from New England

In every solemn tree the wind
Has rung a little lonesome bell,
As sweet and clear, as cool and kind
As my voice bidding you farewell.

This is an hour that gods have loved
To snatch with bare, bright hands and hold.
Mine, with a gesture, grey and gloved,
Dismiss it from me in the cold.

Closely as some dark-shuttered house
I keep my light. How should you know,
That, as you turn beneath brown boughs,
My heart is breaking in the snow?