Snow Race

I cannot return of a wintry night

By the curve of the lane where the maple stands

But my heart is taken by the wheeling white

Snow that races to reach without hands.

In the drive of the wind it curves its race

In a desperate profitless circle that bares

The trunk of the tree to its mossy base-

And never a pause from its own affairs.

My mind has been racing so many years

In its chilly drive at the base of truth

With its handless reach, that the race appears

A one-sided drifting away from youth,

And all banked aside from the urge of growth.

The windy brain ought to learn to be still

And let the heart warm to the profit of both

The brain and the flesh, and not bring this chill

Of ceaseless race, race, and no reason but drive-

And flesh standing cold to the passionate. roots

And bitter at being so dormant alive,

When the heart has its buds and the body its fruits.

'SEEING HOW SURELY DEATH