As of some unproved right, the snow
Settles the outer suburbs now,
Laying its claim unhurriedly
On gnome and monkey-puzzle-tree.
Observe its power to shape and build,
Even in this unfruitful world,
Its white informal fantasies,
From roofs and paths and rockeries.
And swayed by such soft moods, I fall
Into forgiving nearly all
The aspirations of the place,
And what it does to save its face:
The calm and dutiful obsession
With what is “best in our position”,
The loyal and realistic views,
The rush-hours with the Evening News—
The snow fulfils its pure design
And softens every ugly line,
And for a while will exorcize
These virulent proprieties.
Within one mile of here there is
No lovelier place to walk than this,
On days when these kind flakes decide
That what it boasts of, they shall hide.