Snow wraiths circle us <br />Like washers of the dead, <br />Flapping their white wet cloths <br />Impatiently <br />About the grizzled head, <br />Where the coarse hair mats like grass, <br />And the efficient wind <br />With cold professional baste <br />Probes like a lancet <br />Through the cotton shirt… <br /> <br />About us are white cliffs and space. <br />No façades show, <br />Nor roof nor any spire… <br />All sheathed in snow… <br />The parasitic snow <br />That clings about them like a blight. <br /> <br />Only detached lights <br />Float hazily like greenish moons, <br />And endlessly <br />Down the whore-street, <br />Accouched and comforted and sleeping warm, <br />The blizzard waltzes with the night.<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-foundling/
