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Lizette Woodworth Reese
Oh, let me run and hide,
Let me run straight to God;
The weather is so mad with white
From sky down to the clod !
If but one thing were so.
Lilac, or thorn out there,
It would not be, indeed.
So hard to bear.
The weather has gone mad with white;
The cloud, the highway touch;
White lilac is enough;
White thorn too much !
Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as a white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.
We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes: