  THE great, soft, downy snow-storm like a cloak Descends to wrap the lean world head to feet; It gives the dead another winding-sheet, It buries all the roofs until the smoke Seems like a soul that from its clay has broke; It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat, And visits all the trees in their retreat, To hood and mantle that poor shiv’ring folk. With wintry bloom it fills the harshest grooves In jagged pine stump fences. Every sound It hushes to the footstep of a nun. Sweet Charity! that brightens where it moves, Inducing darkest bits of churlish ground To give a radiant answer to the sun. |
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