Pass on their way.
At last the rain yields to the snow
The rule of day.
More white than wool of purest sheep,
The flakes drop down
To cover with a blanket deep
The earth's dull brown.
The air the dainty doilies fill.
A windy gust
Makes drifts like to an ashen hill
Or mound of dust.
A night both cold and dark draws nigh
With bitter breeze,
And makes the snow piled up so high
Turn hard and freeze.
When from on high the dawn breaks forth
In streaks of red,
The cold-baked hill is perfect as
A place to sled.
With breathless speed the children zoom
And glide on by.
As flecks of dust beneath a broom
Do snowflakes fly.
And when they tire of merry play,
They drag their feet
Back to their homes where, night or day,
They may get heat.
Meanwhile, the outside world stays cold,
Peaceful, and still,
From frozen stream to fenced-in-fold
To each white hill.
But not forever cold and white
Will all things be:
At last the snow yields rule of night
To rain's decree.
T.G. 12/8/2021
No comments:
Post a Comment