The claws of the frost are sharp upon my hands. On the harsh lawn each blade of grass Is tempered to a brittle spear of glass. The fountain is crystal-hung; its waters fail. Wilted to colourless, frail Paper the tender flesh of the flowers. The Dryads are gone from the tree, For the leaves are gone, the delicate leafy towers Dismantled, bared to the iron anatomy Not even a bird could hide in. But hid within In the hollow trunk, the knees drawn up to the chin, Hugging herself each shivering Dryad sleeps, And frozen Echo leaps From her dream when my footfalls knock In a motionless, soundless world On a pathway hard as rock. No flutter, no song of bird Nor bubbling flute is heard, Nor laughter of green-eyed Satyr. The Satyr, curled In his ice-hung cave, is shaken with torpid fear; For the days of lust are over And cold are the loved and the lover And the birthday of Christ draws near.
