White Fields

White Fields
In winter-time 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.
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This poem by James Stephens sums up the day here.