Peasant in form and face old Philippe stood Upon broad snow-shoes in the softening snow That spread its whiteness through the sugar-wood. Above him cawed the first returning crow; A blue haze danced upon the hilltop’s rim, Where early April wrought her magic spells; And from tin buckets filling fast to brim The dropping sap rang out like sanctus bells. And as old Philippe heard the echoes pealing Among the maple trees and silver birch That rose above him like the vaulted ceiling And painted pillars of the village church, He looked up toward the blue mysterious sky,— Then bowed as though the Host were passing by.
No posts