The Snowstorm
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
hill
and
woods,
the
river,
and
the
heaven,
And
veils
the
farmhouse
at
the
garden's
end.
The
sled
and
traveller
stopped,
the
courier's
feet
Delated,
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
hiddden
thorn;
Fills
up
the
famer'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.
