Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air. CrabbeInebriety.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving oer the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the gardens end. The sled and traveller stopped, the couriers feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. EmersonThe Snow-Storm.
Come, see the north-winds 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. EmersonThe Snow-Storm.
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. LongfellowSnow-Flakes.
As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, The featherd snow came softly down, As Jove, descending from his towr To court her in a silver showr. The wanton snow flew to her breast, As little birds into their nest; But oercome with whiteness there, For grief dissolvd into a tear. Thence falling on her garment hem, To deck her, froze into a gem. On Chloris walking in the Snow. In Wits Recreations. J. C. Hottens reprint. P. 308. (1640).
Mais où sont les neiges dantan? Cestoit le plus grand soucy queust Villon, le poëte parisien. But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest concern of Villon, the Parisian poet. RabelaisPantagruel. Ch. XIV.
O the snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and earth below; Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet, Dancing, flirting, skimming along. James W. WatsonBeautiful Snow.
At the head of Floras dance; Simple Snow-drop, then in thee All thy sister-train I see; Every brilliant bud that blows, From the blue-bell to the rose; All the beauties that appear, On the bosom of the Year, All that wreathe the locks of Spring, Summers ardent breath perfume, Or on the lap of Autumn bloom, All to thee their tribute bring. MontgomerySnow-Drop.
Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain tops, waylay The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! WordsworthTo a Snow-Drop.