Snowed Under

Slowly the snow-flakes fall through the ashen heavens: no clamour
nor sound whatever comes up from the street.

No cry of the vender of fruits, no rumbling of cart-wheels,
no ballad of love wailing forth from the lips of youth.

Hoarse from the towers of the square the hours groan out,—
Sighs that come from a world far remote from our daylight.

Birds, that homeless wander, peck at the darkened window:
Souls of the lost ones returning! they watch me and call me to
them.

Shortly, O dear Ones, shortly—Heart! tame thy restless rebelling—
down to your silence, down to your peaceful shades will I come!