I felt it on the tip of my nose, Heard it in the leaves crunching underfoot, Saw the smiling frost on the pine trees, No one had faith - but my ears were burning.   Eyes tilted to the sky, A flake floats down the path, Tiptoeing to each pebble up the drive, The moon and I are lone watchers.  The advent candle has blown cold, No noise besides the breath of sky, Then beneath the swell of wind, The orchestra takes their instruments.
