They breathe mild the high firs
Enclosed in the snow mantle.
Softer and thick that white splendor
He’s got every branch, away.
The White streets get more quiet:
The rooms collected, more intense.
Chime the hours. It comes
Beaten every baby, shaking.
Over the wing, the crash of a ciocco
That in lightning and rockin, ruins.
In pale shine of sequins
The candid day out there increases,
It becomes everlasting, infinite.
—Rainer Maria Rilke