The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping fields and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new roofed with Carrara Came chanticleer’s muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan’s-down And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window That noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snowbirds, Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?” And I told of the good All-Father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snowfall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o’er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar on our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, “The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall.” Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.