Soft are spider weepings made of snow,
Like thistledown,
And soft they fill the air.
Light....with cold authority,
They claim the ground,
And leaf....and tree;
The fair and not so fair.
To this, the young are drawn;
To dreams of white,
(With form unformed),
To mold this cloud,
To laugh aloud.
T'is oh so thrilling cold and warm.

Their muffled faces to their sleighs;
To boots....mid mother's worries.
Old youth....Young age....
The same in play.
Tongue catch the whiteness,
Cold as clay.
And fall the white oblivion the more,
Quick....alive....with joyful fluttering.
Call children forth to happy putterings
Sent from the North.
Warm the hearth.
‘Tis Winter falls on Fall.

Copyright (c) Spring 1965 by James R. Hoye