X: Snowfall

Soft morning snowflakes,
like tiny winter-sylphs,
descended from the low-lying
grey heavens in slow downy flight
and caressed the stone cheeks
of Mr. Nathaniel E. Thornton,
who stood, with blank eyes,
proudly atop the monument
of his grand patrimony
in the old and venerable
cold and cavernous
cemetery at Cave Hill.

The snow formed
a delicate white cap
upon Mr. Thornton's stately head
and settled on the dark and bare arms
of all the trees serenely standing
in reverence about him.
The evergreen firs were wearing
white winter-coats by mid-morning,
and kept vigil above the sleeping residents
who were dreaming cold winter-dreams.
The air was hushed
but for the wind whispering
through the trees,
like the discourse
of a few restless spirits
wandering among the oaks and elms,
obelisks and headstones
in the cemetery at Cave Hill.