Upon the hard crest of a snowdrift
We tread, and grown quiet, we walk
On towards my house, white, enchanted;
Our mood is too tender for talk.
And sweeter than song is this dream now
Come true, the low boughs of the firs
That sway as we brush them in passing,
The slight silver clink of your spurs.
[1917]

INVIA LE CORREZIONI