A rare, fragrant snowfall—the kind that comes just once a year—is softly falling. It’s not the drifting snow of deep winter; it’s delicate and transient, yet so thorough in the trees at night that you’d swear it was February’s footprint under the stars. From this scene, the speaker glimpses a face, a stern and former winter self, mended of everything except loneliness by nature’s alibi. That repaired but lonely presence lingers. Then the poem pivots: if every storm were this spiced and gentle, we’d lose its value. We buy worth through contrast—and a pang, kept near as memory, makes the sweetness sharp. The mood is hushed and philosophical, blending wonder at the fleeting snow with a bittersweet understanding that loss and loneliness give beauty its edge.
The Snow that never drifts -- — Summary
The Snow that never drifts -- The transient, fragrant snow That comes a single time a Year Is softly driving now --
So thorough in the Tree At night beneath the star That it was February's Foot Experience would swear --
Like Winter as a Face We stern and former knew Repaired of all but Loneliness By Nature's Alibit --
Were every storm so spice The Value could not be -- We buy with contrast -- Pang is good As near as memory --