Classic Poem

The snow had fallen, and fallen from heaven,
Unnoticed in the night,
As o'er the sleeping sons of God
Floated the manna white;
And still though small flowers crystalline
Blanched all the earth beneath,
Angels with busy hands above
Renewed the airy wreath;
When, white amid the falling flakes,
And fairer far than they,
Beside her wintry casement hoar
A dying woman lay.
“More pure than yonder virgin snow
From God comes gently down
I left my happy country home,”
She sighed, “to seek the town.
More foul than yonder drift shall turn,
Before the sun is high,
Down-trodden and defiled of men,
More foul,” she wept, “am I.
Yet, as in midday might confessed,
Thy good sun's face of fire
Draws the chaste spirit of the snow
To meet him from the mire,
Lord, from this leprous life in death
Lift me, Thy Magdalene,
That rapt into Redeeming Light
I may once more be clean.”