White sky, over the hemlocks bowed with snow
Saw you not at the beginning of evening the antlered
Buck and his doe
Standing in the apple-orchard? I saw them. I saw them
Suddenly go
Tails up, with long leaps lovely and slow
Over the stone-wall into the wood of hemlocks bowed
With snow

Now lies he here, his wild blood scalding the snow

How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees
Bringing to his antlers
The buck in the snow
How strange a thing, — a mile away by now, it may be
Under the heavy hemlocks that as the moments pass
Shift their loads a little, letting fall a feather of snow —
Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe