POETRY.
LONDON IN SNOW.
WHITE, white they lie, smoke-smitten roofs and streets,—
Their yeas-long black distemper blanched away ; Their faces and their spaces gray in sheets
Of splendour wonder-wrought are born to-day.
Air-flocking armies seize the shackled town ; Their tents are bright on house-tops and in fields ; Their lances hang in rows, their banners drown The blinded lawns with pallid, gleaming shields.
The deadened fall of foot and hoof unheard Breaks not the fettered air, the wheels are dumb On smothered ways ; the sullen stream unstirred Engulfs the swift, bright legions as they come.
Old dome and tower, pinnacle and spire,
Are charmed to crusted marble 'gainst the clouds In whioh, enmeshed, the struggling round of fire Peers red and wan across the city's shrouds.
There let her lie in beauty 'neath the hems Of mantles pure, miraculous and cold And leaden skies. Soon toiling Town and Thames Shall hold their ancient grayness as of old.
HER MAN SCHEFFAIIER.
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