Poems (Jordan)/Thaw
THAW
The busy clouds were bended low Above their self-appointed task—The making of a robe of snow, For which Earth, mutely, seemed to ask.
The sullen Sun refused one strand From off his shining spool of gold;But back of a gray screen he scanned The mantle growing, fold on fold.
Then, with a burning jealousy, Seeing it o'er Earth's shoulders thrown,He grasped the garment hastily, And raveled all the clouds had sewn!