Its twilight, hushed and cold
Sheathed in swathes of white snow
Atop the hill, the flakes are silver and bold,
Their fall, neither hurried nor slow,
Very slightly ruffles the sledging marks,
And footsteps, that start
Where deodars are a lovely dark,
Their covered furs lend a contrast
To a quaint wooden home,
Whose charming old windows are warm and yellow
A beautiful deep brown, a dream lone
Deep seeded in a foggy white mellow
I sit lonely on the silvering earth,
As lively lights sing of burning charcoal and homely love;
I cannot approach the hearth,
While a tinge deeper turns sky and whiter turn my gloves
I watch and smile at Warmth’s ballet;
A dream of deserts concealing frozen lakes
But my long dark hair may not care for that valley
They’re contend, kissing the enticing snowflakes.
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