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 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. 



EMERSON: The Snowstorm. 



