The air is like a beryl, clean and clear,

Intensified by gleaming points of blue.

Sharp-outlined, distant sounds come ringing near

And crisply pierce the brittle silence through.

The sturdy trees that yester-eve were gray

In dim and foggy veils, and half effaced

By winter rain that compassed them, to-day

Arise like knights in crystal armor laced.

The stiff, brown-fibered weeds beside the walk

Have pinned, with each dull spike, a shivered star.

An icy chime is rung from every stalk

To wandering step that clashes them ajar.

The wood is bright as when the summer lost

Her sun-gems in the deep, soft shadow-seas—

Only the light is dagger-edged with frost,

And breaks in spangles on the ice-mailed trees.

—Hattie Whitney in The Ladies’ World.