The Winter

Across North Wales

The snowflakes wander,

A swarm of white bees.

Over the woods

A cold veil lies.

A load of chalk

Bows down the trees.

No undergrowth

Without its wool,

No field unsheeted;

No path is left

Through any field;

On every stump

White flour is milled.

Will someone tell me

What angels lift

Planks in the flour-loft

Floor of heaven

Shaking down dust?

An angel’s cloak

Is cold quicksilver.

And here below

The big drifts blow,

Blow and billow

Across the heather

Like swollen bellies.

The frozen foam

Falls in fleeces.

Out of my house

I will not stir

For any girl

To have my coat

Look like a miller’s

Or stuck with feathers

Of eider down.

What a great fall

Lies on my country!

A wide wall, stretching

One sea to the other,

Greater and graver

Than the sea’s graveyard.

When will rain come?