Something there is about a freshly fallen snow;
bewitching light of silent surface shone,
I stand in awe of some small splendor sown
beside the bleak. The rest is monolithic stone
or steel and brick of towers grown and rested on this once-fair land;
but something in the snow of fairness still can speak
(a city shines about the place) bejeweled and casting shadows down
on streets that seemed to weep in filth,
now washed with tears and clean of urban curse.
As I warm myself of winter wear and breathe
upon my knuckles bare I see it plain—
there writes the hand of nameless lovely gods,
penning fresh the land in snowy verse,
whose unmarred length is softly seeming stone—
something there is about a freshly fallen snow;
but I have places I must go,
and other days for to and fro (although
I may not ever wander back).