“The foal,” she said, “may come tonight.

Would perish in this northern blow.”

“You rest,” she said, “‘twill be alright.

Be back before the lamp is low.”

The barn, it lay beyond the spring—

A hundred steps from hearth to hay.

Severe enough without the sting

Of winter winds to bar the way.

A heavy thing my cabin door,

Of oak and iron and lock and bar,

Let lamplight out to live no more,

And she was gone, my Winter Star.

I lay upon my bed of skins

Of beaver, wolf, and fox and bear,

Remembering how life begins

With gifts that come, yet not by prayer.

I wanted not the touch or word

Of any other, meek or strong.

And so I came here undeterred,

And believed no other could belong.

By strength and wit, with traps and gun,

I prospered long; I wandered far.

My needs were few; my wants were none

Until I found my Winter Star.

She’d stepped within my trap of steel—

I see it yet, the scarlet snow.

By star and lantern she did reveal

The glow of night; I named her so.

My boots I gave her—mittens, too.

A litter made from bark and pine.

And at my hearth the day was new—

She wept and smiled and tasted wine.                 

In love we lived and laughed and lay

Upon this bed I cannot leave,

For frostbite took my steps away

And hid them on that winter’s eve.

So now I wait for her return;

I count how oft her footsteps are—

And oh, the lamp! So low, the burn—

Make haste, my love, my Winter Star.

                              M. Gibbs