Here where the snow comes whitely down,
All worldiness is done;
The saintly, silent little Town
Is like a nun;

Most holy in her street and spire,
Most perfectly at rest,--
Ah, God, who knows what hid desire
Is in her breast,

Where peony or daffodil
Or wayward rose begins,
Burning her drifted bosom, still,
Like secret sins.