I see you clearly now, dear wandering friend,
on your road to nowhere pausing at this scene:
a tiny town, four or five houses only,
clustered along the shore of a frozen lake
watched over by the white church from its hill.
It’s old New England, it must be Christmas Eve,
the ground is covered deep and white with snow—
outside the Inn three carolers are singing
all bundled warm against the frosty night,
but folks are mostly home eating their suppers
while the horses snort and steam in the warm barns.

You stand there in white cloak and hood, apart,
on drifted snow which none but you has tracked:
the stars are out, the air is biting cold.
With smiling face you recognize the scene,
rejoicing—but have no wish to possess it.
Detached, ironic, ready now to leave,
you linger long enough for one last look
at two plump children tumbling on the ice.
...

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