See, now, this filigree: 'tis the snow,
Shaped, in the void, of heavenly dew:
On winds of space like flower to blow
In a wilderness of blue.
Black are those pines. The utter cold
Hath frozen to silence the birds' green woods.
Rime hath ensteeled the wormless mould,
A vacant quiet broods.
Lo, this entranced thing! - a breath
Of life that bids Man's heart to crave
Still for perfection; ere fall death,
And earth shut in his grave.
This morning's poem is by one of my favourites poets, Walter de la Mare.
(More snowy scenes later).
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