Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
DiversionWallace Gould
S
now that the snowflakes are falling.
It has been too long that nothing has happened.
The poor old year has been a bore.
She has been unkempt.
She has worn a faded calico dress too ragged for repair.
She has murmured of doom.
She has crooned of former profusions
of silk brocades,
rare perfumes,
or lovely lusts.
Even now the forests are green and black,
but within them,
instead of the tawn of the spills,
there is the white of the snowflakes.
Even now the fields are tawny,
but across them there are streaks of white—
the white of the snowflakes on the frozen brooks.
Even now the skies are gray,
but the gray of the skies is enlivened with streaming white—
the white of the snowflakes.
The snowflakes are falling,
to circle,
or wander,
or dart,
or float,
all like children at play—
like desperate children
awaiting the sound of the school bell.
now that the snowflakes are falling.