The Onset: By Robert Frost

I know the winter death has never tired
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrifted four feet deep
As measured against maple, birch, and oak,
It cannot check the peeper’s silver croak;
And I shall see the snow all go downhill
In water of a slender April rill
That flashes tail through last year’s withered brake

And dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.

Nothing will be left white but here a birch,
And there is a clump of houses with a church.

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