When the Snow Sifts Through

S. W. Gillilan

The icy gale that hurled the snow

Against the window pane,

And rattled the sash with a merry clash

Used not its strength in vain;

For now and then a wee flake sifted

Through the loose ill-fitting frame,

By the warmer breezes each was lifted

All melting as they came.

The baby stood with shining eyes,

Her hands upon the sill;

She watched each flake and the course 'twould take,

And her voice was never still.

'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?"

And, "Where's all the beauty gone?

What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow,

When it gets in where it's warm?"

I smiled that day, but seldom now

Does the thought of smiling come;

A phantom shape, a bow of crape,

And my sweet little child went home.

O Father, "Where does the whiteness go?

And whither's the beauty flown?

Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow'

On my cheek as I face the storm?"

Again the wild wind hurls the snow

Against the frosted pane

And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash,

While I hear those words again.

The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill

Where a little mound is seen,

And they cover it softly and tenderly

As the grass with its cloak of green.