Winter Holly. O wasted bank, O dark, brave holly trees ! Ye whom I loved in seasons long gone by, Loved, as a child may love—not asking why ; Loved, ere I knew that chilly blows the breeze At sunset, or that unstirred waters freeze. How ignorant, how happy then was I. Ye too have suffered your mid-winter snow, Your roots all naked to the biting air. Are these the berried boughs I used to know ? Is this the burnished green you used to wear ? Perhaps it is, but then it showed more fair, Or else my gladder eyes did make it so. Alice Law.