Poems (Jordan)/Thaw

THAW
The busy clouds were bended low
Above their self-appointed task—
The making of a robe of snow,
For which Earth, mutely, seemed to ask.

The sullen Sun refused one strand
From off his shining spool of gold;
But back of a gray screen he scanned
The mantle growing, fold on fold.

Then, with a burning jealousy,
Seeing it o'er Earth's shoulders thrown,
He grasped the garment hastily,
And raveled all the clouds had sewn!