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 form,
whispering, rustling through the air
on still and stone roof everywhere
It heaps its powdery flakes on every tree
a mountain makes
‘Til pale and fate at shut of day
stoops from the West one wintery ray
Feathered in fire where ghosts the moon
a robin shrills its lonely tune.