(After Walt Whitman)
That light, that white, that weird, uncanny substance we call snow
Is slowly sifting through the bare branches—and ever and anon
My thoughts sift with the drifting snow, and I am full of pale regret.
Yes, full of pale regret and other things—you know what I mean.
And why? Because the snow must go; the time has came to part.
Yes, it cannot wait much longer—like the flakes my thoughts are melting
'Tis here, 'tis there, in fact, 'tis everywhere—the snow I mean.
Like the thick syrup which covers buckwheat cakes it lies.
The man who says he don't regret its passing also lies.
And wilt thou never come again? Yes, thou wilt never come again. Alas!
How well I remember thee! 'Twas but yesterday, methinks.
When a great daub of snow fell from a nearby housetop
And when I ventured—poor foolish mortal that I was—to look,
Caught me fairly in the mouth (an awful swat) and nearly smothered me.
There is another little trick of thine, most lovely snow—
It is but a proof of thine affection to cling around our necks,
But still we swear—we cannot help it, Snow.
Now it is "Skidoo," or "23 for you." Oh, cursed inconstancy of man!
This poem is in the public domain.