Poetry Archives

1133

The Snow that never drifts—
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now—

So thorough in the Tree
At night beneath the star
That it was February’s Foot
Experience would swear—

Like Winter as a Face
We stern and former knew
Repaired of all but Loneliness
By Nature’s Alibit—

Were every storm so spice
The Value could not be—
We buy with contrast—Pang is good
As near as memory—