It was snowing like cotton
and the evening had only white
All over it...
The boy stood there at the station gate
With his eyes filled with paints
He thought he witnessed
A beautiful evening again...
Looking up as he saw flakes
Of snow circling and dancing mid air suspended by the magic
Of the wind...
He his overcoat tightened
And looked ahead...
The road leading to the gate was all white
And the rows of yellow streetlights-
How they lent hues on the snow...
Yellow and blue and darkish shadows...
The golden rails of the stairs
Marble under a thin cover of white
Under the faint loony light
Glistened like real gold...
And he the boy stood there
As if he was struck by some painting so moving...so bold...
A painting of a station gate some centuries old
And a little boy standing right there
On a snowy evening with moonlight fair...
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