"Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But beside the fire's delightful
And we've really no place to go, so . . .
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."
Ok. Blame me. I'm the one.
For years I have been praying for a Blizzard to hit between Christmas and New Year's Day.
Born in December, I love the snow. I love nothing better than watching the snow accumulate, relaxing in sweats, sipping on hot chocolate or a beer (depending on time of day) enjoying the warmth of a fire. I keep hoping that everything will shut down for a while and life will be put on hold.
When was the last time you were forced to stay home and do next to nothing and no one can be mad about it? It's a beautiful thing!
Sadly, they don't make blizzards the way they used to.
I know that 1978 was a once in a century super storm. But couldn't we have gotten a '76 or '77 style blizzard? What happened this week was more like a typical winter snowstorm. Things shut down more as a precaution than a necessity.
That said, the snow was of perfect quality. It was fluffy yet somewhat yet. Ideal for making snowballs, snowmen, snow forts, etc. If only I weren't 46 years old and fat.
My beagles, Maggy and Sherman loved the snow.
Maggy will be the first one to tell you, if you ask her, that she does not like the cold or icky weather. Sherman doesn't seem to be phased by any kind of weather. But both of them loved running, chasing, rolling in, and eating mouthfuls of this snow. If they were truly human kids, they would have played in the snow until they turned blue. (Beagles, even blue ticks, don't turn blue.)
I love the snow. Snow is that white substance that falls, like manna from heaven, creating incomparable winter wonderlands. Freshly fallen snow often evokes spiritual imagery of purity. Magically and mystically, winter's world is encased in a sparkling chrysalis that calls to the child in all of us. The cares of the day all drift away.
I hope you enjoy the following poems about snow.
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued. By Robert Frost
* * * * * * * * * *
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smoothes and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.
The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream. By Archibald Lampman
* * * * * * * * * *
Everywhere, everywhere, snow sifting down,
a world becoming white, no more sounds,
no longer possible to find the heart of the day,
the sun is gone, the sky is nowhere, all at bay,
I know it is impossible to hold, but look at me,
Arms out, palms up, grasping at thee,
see how the snow drifts down,
look how happy I am. By Charles Hear, inspired by Joseph Stroud
* * * * * * * * * *
When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marveled----marveled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
"O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!"
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul''s high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of somber men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labor and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them,
for the charm they have broken. By Robert Bridges