Poetry Archives

When cold December
Froze to grisamber
The jangling bells on the sweet rose-trees—
Then fading slow
And furred is the snow
As the almond’s sweet husk—
And smelling like musk.
The snow amygdaline
Under the eglantine
Where the bristling stars shine
Like a gilt porcupine—
The snow confesses
The little Princesses
On their small chioppines
Dance under the orpines.
See the casuistries
Of their slant fluttering eyes—
Gilt as the zodiac
(Dancing Herodiac).
Only the snow slides
Like gilded myrrh—
From the rose-branches—hides
Rose-roots that stir.