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100
THE FIRST SNOW.
The first sharp snow is shrilling through the trees,Muffling all other sounds, as though it were
The cold hand of a god pressed unaware
Across the strings of all earth's harmonies,
Or as a sorrow with its silences
Drowns a heart's music in one chord of care,
Filling with dumbness of unechoing air
What rang with rapture of a soul at ease.
Yet fair the widowed world that sits in white,
And sweet to ears attuned that whistling sound
Of falling frost, so pure, so keen, so light!
Sometimes, aweary of gay bird and leaf,
This also good the satiate heart hath found,—
To hear the sharp still monotone of grief.
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