At last we reached the pointed firs
And rested for a little while;
The light of home was in her smile
And my cold hand grew warm as hers.

Behind, across the level snow,

We saw the half-moon touch the hill
Where we had felt the sunset; still
Our feet had many miles to go.
And now, new little stars were born
In the dark hollows of the sky;—
Perhaps (she said) lest we should die
Of weariness before the morn.

Once, when the year stood still at June,
At even we had tarried there
Till Dusk came in —her noiseless hair
Trailing along a pathway strewn

With broken cones and year-old things.
But now, tonight, it seemed that She
Therein abode continually,
With weighted feet and folded wings.

And so we lingered not for dawn
To mark the edges of our path;
But with such hope a blind man hath
At midnight, we went groping on.

—I do not know how many firs
We stumbled past in that still wood:
Only I know that once we stood
Together there—my lips on hers.

Between the midnight and the dawn
We came out on the farther side;
—What if the wood was dark and wide?
Its shadows now were far withdrawn,

And O the white stars in the sky!
And O the glitter of the snow!—
Henceforth we knew our feet should know
Fair ways to travel—she and I—

For One—Whose shadow is the Night—
Unwound them where the Great Bear swung
And wide across the darkness flung
The ribbons of the Northern Light.