No breath of wind,
No gleam of sun
Still the white snow
Whirls softly down
Twig and bough
And blade and thorn
All in an icy
Quiet, forlorn.
Whispering, rustling,
Through the air
On still and stone,
Roof, - everywhere,
It heaps its powdery
Crystal flakes,
Of every tree
A mountain makes;
Til pale and faint
At shut of day
Stoops from the West
One wintry ray,
And, feathered in fire
Where ghosts the moon,
A robin shrills
His lonely tune.
Snow
written byWalter de la Mare
© Walter de la Mare