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The title for this poem show a boy gathering a snowball, and some houses with roofs covered in snow, and an old-fashioned lamp-post.
Nothing is quite so quiet and clean
As snow that falls in the night;
And isn’t it jolly to jump from bed
And find the whole world white?
It lies on the window ledges,
It lies on the boughs of the trees,
While Sparrows crowd at the kitchen door,
With a pitiful “If you please!”
It lies on the arm of the lamp-post,
Where the lighter’s ladder goes
And the policeman under it beats his arms,
And stamps—to feel his toes;
The butcher’s boy is rolling a ball
To throw at the man with the coals,
And old Mrs Ingram has fastened a piece
Of flannel under her soles;
No sound there is in the snowy road
From the horse’s cautious feet,
And all is hushed but the postman’s knocks
Rat-tatting down the street.
Till the men come round with shovels
To clear the snow away,—
What a pity it is that when it falls
They never let it stay!