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