Looking For a Sunset Bird in Winterby Robert Frost
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white, I thought I saw a bird alight.
In summer when I passed the place
I had to stop and lift my face; The west was getting out of gold,
A bird with an angelic gift Was singing in it sweet and swift. No bird was singing in it now. A single leaf was on a bough, And that was all there was to see In going twice around the tree. From my advantage on a hill I judged that such a crystal chill Was only adding frost to snow As gilt to gold that wouldn't show. A brush had left a crooked stroke Of what was either cloud or smoke From north to south across the blue;A piercing little star was through.