The Snow
IT sifts from leaden sieves,It powders all the wood,It fills with alabaster woolThe wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even faceOf mountain and of plain,—Unbroken forehead from the eastUnto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,It wraps it, rail by rail,Till it is lost in fleeces;It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem,—The summer's empty room,Acres of seams where harvests were,Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,As ankles of a queen,—Then stills its artisans like ghosts,Denying they have been.