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 keys 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. nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbsp nbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspnbspAnd I, who have listened for a step All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away, Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.
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