Some winters, taking leave, Deal us a last, hard blow, Salting the ground like Carthage Before they will go. But the bright, milling snow Which throngs the air today— It is a way of leaving So as to stay. The light flakes do not weigh The willows down, but sift Through the white catkins, loose As petal-drift Or in an up-draft lift And glitter at a height, Dazzling as summer’s leaf-stir Chinked with light. This storm, if I am right, Will not be wholly over Till green fields, here and there, Turn white with clover, And through chill air the puffs of milkweed hover.