Monday, February 02, 2015

The Snow-Storm

Yesterday's snowfall left us with a little over 14 inches of snow. It was a lovely day to be inside to watch the snow, listen to the wind, and spend time with candles burning.

Today is a spectacular day of blue sky and white glittering snow. As a lover of poetry, I was happy to re-read the The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Emerson was born in Boston in 1803. He was a Harvard graduate and became a member of the clergy. When his young wife, Ellen, died in 1831 of tuberculosis he left the clergy in his grief. 

He later became friends with Amos Alcott, Walt Whitman and his own prodigy, Henry David Thoreau. He was instrumental in becoming part of the Transcendental movement.

In 1870 he was known for his poetry and was often called the "Sage of Concord." 

Emerson died in 1882. 

His poem is below for you to enjoy.

The photo was taken by Tonya Eberly Burns. This is her road which has not been plowed yet. 

Photo courtesy of Tonya Eberly Burns
The road not plowed.

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 traveller 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, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; 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.