The Snowing of the Pines

Softer than silence, stiller than still air Float down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves. The forest floor its annual boon receives That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair. Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear. Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way; High up, the crows are gathering for the night; The delicate needless fill the air; the jay Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight; They fall and fall, till at November’s close The snow-flakes drop as lightly—snows on snows.

Collection: 
English
Thomas Wentworth Higginson

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