The house is drifted high; the lines are down.  
The last light flakes have left the open sky.  
The world is silent in snow stillness.  
The wind is quiet after one great final sigh.  

And out for miles around, all white,  
The sharpness of the land is gone,  
And there is a listening kind of quiet,  
Just us and then whatever lies beyond.  

The cold air burns into my lungs and wakes my blood,  
The air so cleaned and frozen clear.  
When one lone lark exhilarates the air,  
it moves my muffled soul to hear.  

We have told the children, "No reindeer can get through.  
The wagon and the doll will come a little late."  
Yet they press their noses on the window glass  
And their empty stockings wait--  

The plow could be to Turley's by this time  
And here tomorrow, five miles more tonight.  
I hope, for them--but they must learn  
And see--the road is deep, and clean, and white.  

What might come of it this mystic eve,  
In the permeating quiet, just us and then whatever,  
Whoever--in all that open sky, a song or whisper?  
Perhaps one star might seem just brighter.  

But hear the children shout! And here it comes,  
Interrupting, into chunks, the covering.  
It's at the bridge and in an hour will clear the door  
And send the hawk from hovering.  

Flocks of blackbirds scatter up  
And break the air with scolding  
What might have come of one more solitary morning  
Silent, dark, and waiting?--Well-- 

But now the mail will come.  
And what a load of cards all in one day.  
I'll go out back and start the truck.  
The stores stay open late tonight.