SISTER SNOW

Praised be our Lord ( to echo the sweet phrase

Of saintly Francis ) for our sister Snow:

Whose soft, soft coming never man may know

By any sound; whose down-light touch allays

All fevers of worn earth. She clothes the days

In garments without spot, and hence doth go

Her noiseless shuttle swiftly to and fro,

And very pure, and pleasant, are her ways.

But yesterday, how loveless looked the skies!

How cold the sun's last glance, and unbenign,

Across the field forsaken, russet-leaved!

Now pearly peace on all the landscape lies.

— Wast thou not sent us, Sister, for a sign

Of that vast Mercy of God, else unconceived?