Archibald Lampman (1861–1899)

ALONG the narrow sandy height

I watch them swiftly come and go,

Or round the leafless wood,

Like flurries of wind-driven snow,

Revolving in perpetual flight,

A changing multitude.

Nearer and nearer still they sway,

And, scattering in a circled sweep,

Rush down without a sound;

And now I see them peer and peep,

Across yon level bleak and grey,

Searching the frozen ground—

Until a little wind upheaves

And makes a sudden rustling there,

And then they drop their play,

Flash up into the sunless air,

And, like a flight of silver leaves,

Swirl round and sweep away.