Snow-tears are soft upon the cheek
beneath a brittle porcelain moon;
delicate griefs of nocturnal-noon
falling into a gladsome creek
that wends off through a shadow-wood
conversing of all things fair and good.
Moon-peaks are luminous in the sun
draped in blankets of alabaster dust;
the clouds in the east are turning to rust:
the bonfire-bloom of dawn has begun.
But snow-tears still fall with quiet charm
and soft on the cheek they do no harm.
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