Beneath a weight of glistening snow each bough was bent,
Ice-glued the crystal cushions took strange form,
Like ghosts of prehistoric ferns whose palour blent
With earth and sky—the aftermath of storm.
The splattering rain had stayed its noisy, windblown course
And now the padding flakes had ceased to come.
A silent world that stilled all passion and remorse,
Heart-throbbings, grief, thoughts dull and burthensome.
And in the shanty's warmth a child lay stretched at rest,
As delicate as winter tracery.