GRAY misty world of snow Where fluttering to and fro The clear frost-petals fly Under a leaden sky— Into your mists I seem to pass Through the protecting glass, And seem myself a snowflake, hurled By wild winds up and down the world— Asking of this short hour Nothing except to feel that power Which sustains snowflakes till in the end they must Fall down to dust, Having swept half the heavens; I ask no more: Others have asked a greater gift before, And yet, for all their pleading, rest not now Gem-like on any winter-sacred bough. |