From light inside I shield my eyes and peer
Through frost-pained glass to read just 5 degrees ,
The wind is dead; the disappointed trees
Must face the dawn with tense, unshuddered fear.
Like an old curtain, full of holes and sheer,
A patchwork snow blinks coldly, if you please,
At sun inadequate, which, rising, sees
A world of smoking chimneys, barren, sere.
But here beside the fire, with nervous care,
I peek into a box of butterflies
Just in from Germany; their beauty rare
Through all the troubled ages never dies.
I hold- -and is it hard for you to understand?
The soul and best of summer in my trembling hand!
by Ray Romine Sunday, January 30, 1949
