William Jay Smith
Snow
Late in the day the soft snow comes
To the hungry sparrows like bread crumbs
Where the cold clear lakes are kettledrums.
A drunken workman staggers past;
While drawn to ambush in the west,
The cutthroat sun is failing fast.
A frozen harp, the willow leans
By the water's edge; and what life means
Is shown on scrolls and altar screens
Which open wide for all to see,
In the cold clear lake and frozen tree,
The pure design of tragedy.
While oak fires blaze in Gothic halls,
The flames, reflected on the walls,
Loom wild and dark. And the soft snow falls.
Page(s) 7
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