Out on the field of tawny yellow
winter’s drear, and among the bare
skeletal branches of forlorn trees
plays a breeze slyly slight;
the sere sky glows with veiled light,
a beauty strange and unlooked for,
and out on the field of barren blond
snow-flurries dance, they wheel and rush
a strange romance of winter demure, a-blush
with half-concealed glory.
Snow-dancers amid the stark and cold,
you coyly call, softly unfold the mystery
of beauty bursting through the bleak,
of love in clouded seasons,
and glory waiting to be.