Snow against the red and yellow lights of Broadway seems an artificial thing. I listen for a brittle pattering Among brown leaves, and hear the city night's Commotion, muffled by the snow. The heights Of the tallest buildings are obscured. A wing Of feathery sky has settled down to cling Protectingly around the shops while sprites, Unseen, are riding on the snowflakes. Hair And brows are jewelled with the falling snow And soft fur coats and shabby wraps are spelled By the same white magic, and all men are held As neighbors for a moment as they go Slipping and laughing through the speckled air.