There are deep drifts of snow,
Deep mists I know
Which hush the racing madness
Of the world

And through her window sheer
I see a dauntless fear 
In gallops ‘cross
The banks of lush-white snow.

I look but do not touch
What lingers on the pane
For all the madness that I see
In me is same–

And tho the strident light,
From lamp post down below,
Halos each and every flake
In humble perfect-ness,

Still, I latch to bed and pillow,
Staring on, sensing, knowing
What imperfections

Truly live there on

In the breach 

Of an early winter storm.