After the Ice-Storm

After the ice-storm, bundled in coat and muffler, And putting my feet down cautiously and slow, I turned aside for a broken branch of poplar Fallen across the snow.

Out in the street, where the branch was twig, I noticed Something I had to stop for, look at twice, A long green bud, enlarged in brittle crystal, Encased and sheathed in ice.

Of course I knew the buds were there in winter, But my poor observation had not seen When I looked up at them on other mornings How far along, how green,

How almost leaf they were, in February! I broke the twig, and held it in my glove, Rebuke to carelessness, to study closer, To learn from, and to love,

To feel the least bit sentimental over, Knowing that now it could not ever be Fulfilled, in April, in the way of nature, High on the poplar tree.

Too bad; but still, except for this disaster, The single bud, so dear, so precious now, Would have been lost with all the host of others Above me on the bough.

Well: there was nothing I could do about it, Except remember it, if so inclined. I let it drop, went on where I was going, Dismissed it from my mind.

Or did I? Frozen bud, and promise broken, And green caught fast in ice, are, it would seem, Matters not so conveniently forgotten. I dreamed, and in the dream

There was warm weather, sun on land and water, I wore my summer clothes, my arms were brown, And I was in a boat, and going slowly And idly looking down

Through glass, through green, through emerald translucence, And far below, deep as a tree is high, I saw the shoots of life, a shoal of fishes, Little as buds, go by.

Little as buds, and shaped like buds, but orange, Golden; not green, not ice-locked; darting bright, Flashes of fire, whose element was water, Almost too swift for sight.

My boat moved on, drawn by no sail, no rower. What was I over now ? A great white stone Huge as a sunken iceberg, shapeless, looming Fathoms below the known.

Not ice, not stone, not shapeless, but a goddess, Most grave, most noble, dweller in the seas, Majestic in her robes of marble, holding A zither on her knees.

And there was music coming from the ocean, Benevolent, melodious, profound, And I heard all that lay below the surface In that Aeolian sound.

Remember, oh remember, said the music To wind and air and water-weed and wave, And to my heart, Remember, oh remember The vows that summer gave.

And will renew, I knew, of early morning, Of poplar branches trembling in the night, Fragrance, and warmth; a girl, and mirth, and gardens, All marvel, all delight.

My boat had grounded on the shoals of waking, And I, through whipping sedge and driving sand, Trudged, when I did not stumble, toward the barren, The gray, the frozen land,

Willing to face, but not entirely willing The ordinary moments of the day; Farewell, I kept on saying to the music, And woke, and it was May.