White. Snow. Sae del'cate that we feel it hence Within our souls: that hallowed silence they'll Assure ye is what Sunday's due. T'inhale Is what we do, half stifled, til I thence Am lo, some heathen, breaking in fr'intents And shattring that fine calm as I exhale My raptures with sheer glee words maught avail Aught else, Dad chiding me like's sans defense. So I pass through to breakfast: late. Yes, stir Him 'spite all that to later say it too, Whenas the dainty white is heavy--we're Agreed tis verra wet, and will melt to Effect ere we're aware, nor linger. Pure Sweet silence calls unto my soul as't woo.