Classic Poem

Down drops the snow, the fleecy hooding snow,
On town and wood and haggard, wind-blown space,
And hushes the storms, and all weird winds that blow
Upon the world's dead face.

Like the great rest that cometh after pain,
The calm that follows storm, the great surcease,
This folding slumber comforts wood and plain
In one white mantling peace.

So when His winter comes, His folding dream,
His calm for tempest-tost and Autumn-lorn;
'Twill gently fall, as falls by wood and stream
His snows this winter morn.