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The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson -YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

 

Sub-Zero-Temperatures-in-Chicago 

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 farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The steed 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, 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 structure, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

Snow Blizzard

blizzard

Snow is falling
Making it hard to see
The temperature is dropping
To negative digits
Winds are picking up
Swirling snow into piles
Having little finger drifts
Cover the roads
Hiding the ice patches
That are dangerous
To most drivers
Kids are no where
To be found
Only adults
Out on the driveways
With red and blue shovels
Scooping up snow
And throwing it off to the side
These winter storms
That most people fear
Are the cold and miserable
Snow blizzards

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