It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.
There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white
Of a childhood piano—outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.
Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,
Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .
So much has fallen. And I, who have listened for a
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.
