The falling snow has drawn the heavens near. Priests of white purity, the trees stand still In woodland aisle or on cathedral hill, Chanting hushed anthems that the eye can hear. How do black limbs and level snow make clear Each other's tracings, as a man's dark will A woman knows to soften, yet fulfil! How in this brooding season of the year The heads bow low of elm or bush or weed, The thoughtful world from hasty life withdrawn! Too soon will come the waking up of greed; Too soon will break red passion's torrid dawn. In this your Sabbath day, dear world, get power Of holy peace for that abhorrent hour. |