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And still it snows, And blows Across the orchards in big drifts; But for the sunbursts through the rifts Of cloud today, It’s never quit. And when it goes away— This snow up here, it will be free from blame For it will leave in beauty as it came. The sun will loosen all the bonds That bind the baby-sapling’s fronds Close to the ground, And they’ll rebound. The ice-locked creek will show its green And swirling eddies in between The marble bridges flung across Its twisted banks of moss.

Each day will see new colors peep; Gray bark and green—the deep Rich sheen of laurels—short, stalky grapes, Stiff, jagged, red—and twisted shapes Of leaves turned russet, shrivelled, sere— Still dangling from the stems of the dead year— All penciled bold against the bright, Cold snow, like patterns on a page of spotless white. And each new day will leave some strange, Blue arabesque upon the eastern range, Drag streaks of ochre down the fields, and shade The purple brush-lands deeper where they fade Off to the west, and pools of melting snow will hold The winter evening sun’s last splash of gold.