A Clinging Snow
The world of trees is twinned with a world of snow,
Like black Othello and his stainless mate;
In parallels as strange as hope and fate
The sweet white follows where the branches go.
Its feathered heavy arches bending low,
The forest holds itself in crystal state;
All softly scintillant the hushed aisles wait
As for the march of angels to and fro.
The lowliest hush o’ertops the highest art,
And loveliness is flung on log and stone
And wreathed in all recesses of the wood.
Ah, here’s a vision of the pure in heart,
So into truth and living beauty grown
That all their least concerns are fair and good.
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