I think you must remember
When days like this come back
That afternoon the little firs
Leaned to our snowshoe track.

O, how the wood was silent!

Save when the boughs let fall
Their snow upon the speckled drift;
No other noise at all.

And when we gained the open,
Remember how it seemed
The sun had found its ancient strength!—
How white the meadows gleamed!

Ours was a hill-temple.
The old pines in a ring
Waited around the while we prayed
For just this simple thing—

That morning might be April
And we might seek again
The sources of the hidden springs
That tarry for the rain.

To our most quiet altar
We came not as they come
Who have some burden to lay down,
Whose frightened lips are dumb;

But like to them whose courage
Faints not (although their path
Lead sheer across the pathless drift
Into the pits of wrath),

Knowing (each one) that surely
Time’s heartlessness shall cease,
And that at last his hands shall touch
The boundaries of peace.

For we are Northern children;
And when our souls have birth
The strength of the North wind comes to them—
The whiteness of the Earth;

So that we wend unfearing
On our appointed ways,
With thankfulness in our child-hearts
And lips attuned to praise.

Yea, strong enough forever
To bide our separate dooms
Tho’ our bare days and nights be filled
With dreams of Southern blooms.

O wind of the pine forests!
Can you blow down to her
Word that her ancient hills await
Their wandered worshipper?

Tell her that April lingers
Behind the low south wall
Only until the hills divide
At her accustomed call;

Say that a gray cloud gathers
Between the eastern rifts;
That great brown stones win slowly through
The purple-shadowed drifts.

And last—a last endeavor
To mar her unconcern—
Whisper, I, too, wait patiently
Her ultimate return,
Who hold the old faith ever
The years may not make less—
That her white Northern soul hath still
The pole-star’s steadfastness.
Down in your sultry garden
Where red the roses burn
I think you pause a moment now
When days like this return,

And lift your face, and wonder
How deep the drifted snow
Lies on the northern hills that watch
The little town below;

And if the old hill altar
Retains its ancient use;
If still the brooding pines abide
Their dedicated truce.

I think you pause and hearken—
About this time of year—
For the low sound on hidden plains
Of April’s feet, drawn near;

And cry to the opened lilies
That lean unto your hand,—
“Today, one waits on the white hills,
Alone, in a Northern land!”