There will be light noises, noSound harsher than snow.
Never a sound of thunder or river,Torrent or stone—Only vague breath from the old life-giver,Making her ownFinal, lingering filigreeOf frost, blownOn the glass of the sky, in planet and tree,An icicle moon, a torrent and threeGlittering stars half-grown;A slight toneRippling sound into the stilling river,The crisp sea.
And spider snow will spin and spinA tangle of cold to catch earth in.
Morning's red yawn,Evening's pain,Never will startle the earth, then;Pure from her stain,Her garments discarded or cleansed by the cold clean hands of the rain.
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