The Snow-Storm, 
Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
NNOUNCED 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, inclosed 
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, naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 












