Will soon be under snow.
The sun sets in a cloud
And is not seen.
Beauty, that spoke aloud,
Addresses now only the remembering ear.
The heart begins here
To feed on what has been.
Night falls fast.
Today is in the past.
Blown from the dark hill hither to my door
Three flakes, then four
Arrive, then many more.
II
Branch by branch
This tree has died. Green only
Is one last bough, moving its leaves in the sun.
Part II illustrates Millay darkly observing a dying/dead tree, which may be a metaphor for Hope.
Not So Far as the Forest