THE VEIL

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.