by Herbert Merrill
What if the laughing creek is
In ice and night is bitter black?
The mole is snug beneath the
The mouse is warm in his
What if the pond is turned to stone
And the fields are crusted white and
Beneath the snow the seeds are
Patient as time and living still.
And what if winter stalks the house
And whistles down the fireplace?
We sit here snug as mole and
With springtime smiling on your