Diagnosis

A world of white suggests, but does not show,
A snowfall imminent, or happening;
It could just be a mist, instead of snow
Settling through clouds that touch and cling
Seeming to make it white. But having trod
The ground outside, and seen it blow around,
Catch on the tendrils of the frozen sod,
Huddle in corners, glide across the ground,
And altogether act as snow should do,
I think it would be impudent and rude
To counterclaim against a truth I knew
And claim the white mist was not all imbued
With petal-snow, that falls in loops and whirls
And blows about in constant pellet-curls.