With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
(As Mr. Browning has it)
You knew her?—Mary the small,
How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?
You'd never have thought it, never believed,
But the girl owned a lamb last fall.
Its wool was subtly, silky white,
Color of lucent obliteration of night,
Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild's arm!
You've seen her arm—her right, I mean—