The Child at Winter Sunset

The child at winter sunset,
Holding her breath in adoration of the peacock’s tail
That spread its red — ah, higher and higher —
Wept suddenly. “It’s going!”

The great fan folded;
Shortened; and at last no longer fought the cold, the dark.
And she on the lawn, comfortless by her father,
Shivered, shivered. “It’s gone!”

“Yes, this time. But wait,
Darling. There will be other nights — some of them even better.”
“Oh, no. It died.” He laughed. But she did not.
It was her first glory.

Laid away now in its terrible
Lead coffin, it was the first brightness she had ever
Mourned. “Oh, no, it’s dead.” And he her father
Mourned too, for more to come.