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.