Brown grass, picked out with red of bushes, tones
Of silver on the fences; russet, bronze,
The leaves of oaks and beeches; mystic black
Where pools of water lie, and edged there-round
The ghostly glamour of the shallow ice.
Above, a gray-white monody of sky,
And all between the heaven and earth a mist
Of fine, fast-falling snow that makes a veil
Wherethrough you see a mystery, a blend
Of winter colors to a perfect whole
That lifts the heart with beauty and atones
For long-withholden loveliness of June.