The pineboughs sloughing their snow-sheathes,
Snow sloping to snow on the skirt of the forest;
No one to see it, the quiet drama,
Winter's afterthought, following the blizzard.
The patter of gulls' feet on the ice Was another sound.
These were all, for the world,
Folded, furled, closebound,
Slept on, in the spell of the wizard,
Breathing as a mother breathes,
Feeding her child.