THE FIRST SNOW-FALLBy James Russell LowellTHE SNOW had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm-treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with CarraraCame Chanticleer’s muffled crow,The stiff rails softened to swan’s-down,And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the windowThe noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet AuburnWhere a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently,As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?

”And I told of the good All-fatherWho cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,And thought of the leaden skyThat arched o’er our first great sorrow,When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patienceThat fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hidingThe scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered,“The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful FatherAlone can make it fall!

”Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;And she, kissing back, could not knowThat my kiss was given to her sister,Folded close under deepening snow.

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