THE ONSET
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lways the same, when on a fated nightAt last the gathered snow lets down as whiteAs may be in dark woods, and with a songIt shall not make again all winter longOf hissing on the yet uncovered ground,I almost stumble looking up and round,As one who overtaken by the endGives up his errand, and lets death descendUpon him where he is, with nothing doneTo evil, no important triumph won,More than if life had never been begun. Yet all the precedent is on my side:I know that winter death has never triedThe earth but it has failed: the snow may heapIn long storms an undrifted four feet deepAs measured against maple, birch and oak,It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;And I shall see the snow all go down hillIn water of a slender April rillThat flashes tail through last year's withered brakeAnd dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.Nothing will be left white but here a birch,And there a clump of houses with a church.
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