Arachne: A Literary Journal. No. 1
That was the prelude. Silver snow
Like spangles sifted through the rhododendron leaves,
Chimed on the spider-webs, swept to and fro,
And blurred the lawn, the urns, the drooping eaves.
So after bitter exile he came home
And found it smashed, by Prussian gunfire overset.
One guest remained, an abbe or a gnome,
Who, cross-legged, rolled himself a cigarette
And shared with scampering mice a sugared violet.