I go forth now, but not to fill my lap
With violets and white sorrel of the wood;
This is a winter noon; and I may hap
Upon a few dry sticks, and fire is good.
A quickening shrewdness edges the fore wind;
Some things stand clear in this dismantled hour
Which deep-leaved June had hidden; earth is kind,
The heaven is wide, and fire shall be my flower.