THE QUIET SNOW
The quiet snow
Will splotch
Each in the row of cedars
With a fine
And patient hand;
Numb the harshness,
Tangle of that swamp.
It does not say, The sun
Does these things another way.
Even on hats of walkers,
The air of noise
And street-car ledges
It does not know
There should be hurry.
The quiet snow
Will splotch
Each in the row of cedars
With a fine
And patient hand;
Numb the harshness,
Tangle of that swamp.
It does not say, The sun
Does these things another way.
Even on hats of walkers,
The air of noise
And street-car ledges
It does not know
There should be hurry.