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The Snow-storm By Ralph Waldo Emerson

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 

heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's 

feet

Delayed,  all friends shut out, the housemates

sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

 

Come see the north wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 

Curves his white bastions with projected roof

Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work

So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he

For number or proportion. Mockingly,

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;

 

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;

Fill's up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,

Maugre the farmer's sigh's; and, at the gate

A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the 

world

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,

Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,

The frolic architecture of the snow.

Grin32 Grin32 31-35, M Apr 15, 2010

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