Alabaster Wool

It sifts from leaden sieves

It powders all the wood

It fills with alabaster wool

The wrinkles of the road

It makes an even face

Of mountain and of plain,—

Unbroken forehead from the east

Unto the east again

It reaches to the fence

It wraps it, rail by rail

Till it is lost in fleeces;

It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem,—

The summer’s empty room

Acres of seams where harvests were

Recordless, but for them

It ruffles wrists of posts

As ankles of a queen,—

Then stills its artisans like ghosts

Denying they have been