A Poem
The eye, benighted by electric switches,
Is caught by a window where snow bewitches
The weary melancholy that nerved the week.
I stop for a moment on my way to bed
To view the framed landscape, which snow has bled
Of every discretion assumed by sight.
How meekly the soul’s imperfect tense
Surrenders to snow’s soft violence,
Letting go of the senses’ hide-and-seek.
Within the white vision, my silence spins
A blanket confession to nameless sins;
Before the deep weather, a soul’s contrite,
Content to admire the silenced night.