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It’s hip-deep in the clover-field Behind the barn—the woods there shield The sun. I took a jog On show-shoes with the dog Across the ditch that marks the clover’s edge Into a straggling hedge Of saplings—only yesterday they were So cocky and so straight—each baby-fir A prickly little grenadier; and now— How vanquished! Every bough Limp, beaten, crushed, as if The snow had said—“Oh stiff And upright little tree How much of me Do you suppose your arms will hold?” To which the tree made answer bold— “I am a young and husky fir— All you can give, I’ll hold, Good Sir!” A rather glib and short Retort, At which the snow was somewhat stirred, He took the sapling at his word! For so it looked, the way the snow Had laid them low, Swamped to their ears, Those prickly little grenadiers.

That’s what it is to be so small And near the ground, but when you’re grand and tall You shake your boughs and let it fall In great cascades of blinding white, Shot through with light Or morning suns—spray after spray. The gray boles sway With every windy gust that breaks To dust and flakes The tumbling clumps, Baptizing brush and stumps And huge-heaped logs—a deluge, white And dazzling bright.