The snow's a blanket made of crystal, clean and cold,
and shelt'ring all the world in frigid, still embrace,
as if old Mother Nature were a child, consol'd
by curling up beneath a quilt in warmer place;
but here's a blanket far more splendid, far less warm,
embrace that's closer yet more frigid; frozen hard,
these arms bring precious little comfort in the storm,
this beauty little pleasure to the worn and scarr'd.
And when this blanket all the world is cover'd by,
like infant into bed, beneath his mother's guard,
no matter how much beauty comes to eager eye,
that beauty's cold embraces life, and life shall die.
