In the Morning by Willis Boyd Allen - HTML preview
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What so merry as snow?
Gleefully robing the grave old town
In garb fantastic of ermine and down;
Whispering at the window pane,
Then spreading its wee, white wings again
Till, alighting at last with noiseless feet,
On tiptoe in the muffled street
It dances to and fro.
What so pure as snow?
Flakes like the thoughts of a little child,
Undefiling and undefiled;
Wonderful, starry mysteries
Falling softly out of the skies,
Decking with white the bare, brown earth
In memory of the holy birth
At Bethlehem, long ago.