White Fields
In the wintertime we go
Walking in the fields of snow,
Where there is no grass at all,
Where the top of every wall,
Every fence, and every tree,
Is as white as white can be.
Pointing out the way we came
-Every one of them the same-
All across the fields there be
Prints in silver filigree;
And our mothers always know
By the footprints in the snow
Where it is the children go.
James Stephens
