Rain of full-blown spring,
O snow, I call thee, O snow!
Thou trumpet thy coming
As softly as moonlight
Step down the earth,
And as silence sits on lips
When death is at the door.
O snow, thou camouflage
The delicate newly-born buds
And those who are in their prime,
And they lie as corpse in coffin
When there is no one to claim,
And life is as still as still water at night,
And its spirit, though alive, choked,
And thou don't pity them
Who are not subversive
And those who are only images!