Classic Poem

Softly out of the dove-grey sky
Drift the snowflakes fine and dry
Till braeside and bottom are all heaped high.

Remembering how he would love to go
Over the crisp and the creaking snow,
I wonder that now he can lie below

If softly out of the Flanders sky
Drift the snowflakes fine and dry
Till crater and shell-hole are all heaped high.