I do not want to be made white like snow
Which covers and conceals there still below
The dark and dirt of this our hard-packed earth;
It blankets but cannot bring about new birth.
Instead, I’ll be the frost that fades away—
Made brilliant, burning in the light of day—
And, turned to water, washed in bitter death
Is risen as the whitest wintry breath.
A Bookish Charm 