Alike earth rests from labor and from joy;

Hushing each tiniest insect, wearing now

No careless ornament of flower or leaf;

Reaching her pleading arms up to the sky

In longing for its silent chrism of snow

In benediction; like a weary heart,

That worn with spent emotion, sinks at last

Into exhaustion that almost seems rest.

Not brooding over her lost violets,

High in her hands upon the leafless trees