looking for a sunset bird in winter

the west was getting out of gold,
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;
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.


- robert frost