short poem

see, they return
daughter, thou art come to die
she might have known it in the earlier spring
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
to clothe the fiery thought
see, from this counterfeit of him
softly weeping
a thousand silent years ago
the mountains they are silent folk
doubtless i remember still
the snow whispers about me
in all things not spoken of
moonlight deep and tender
the rain was over, and the brilliant air