So softly falls the tired snow
upon the yet green fields;
gently descends the wearied flakes
over the lively plain.
And here I stand—I’ll bear witness—
that ice has come again;
my feet upon the ground, I’ll shout:
the season’s soon to end.
No one will hear my warning call
—each year the mind forgets—
and none shall heed what we all saw.
Again they’ll feign surprise:
The ice, it falls, but is unseen,
for none look to the sky;
all heads are bowed and eyes are blind.
Uncounted hours pass.
The sun still shines, though clouds condense;
the flakes will melt away;
but daylight fades with coming storm,
and then the ice will stay.
Tale Told 