As I saw fair Chloris walk alone,
The feather'd snow came softly down,
As Jove, descending from his tow'r
To court her in a silver show'r.
The wanton snow flew to her breast,
As little birds into their nest;
But o'ercome with whiteness there,
For grief dissolv'd into a tear.
Thence falling on her garment hem,
To deck her, froze into a gem.
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O that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
To melt read more
O that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
To melt myself away in water drops!
If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train read more
If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side,
Or as a little snow, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a mountain.
Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
read more
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.
Our Lady of the Snows.
[Lat., Notre Dames des Neiges.]
Our Lady of the Snows.
[Lat., Notre Dames des Neiges.]
Lo. sifted through the winds that blow,
Down comes the soft and silent snow,
White petals from read more
Lo. sifted through the winds that blow,
Down comes the soft and silent snow,
White petals from the flowers that grow
In the cold atmosphere.
Where's the snow
That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?
Where's the snow
That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?
Come, see the north-wind's masonry,
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
read more
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.
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest
concern of Villon, the Parisian poet.
read more
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest
concern of Villon, the Parisian poet.
[Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? C'estoit le plus grand
soucy qu'eust Villon, le poete parisien.]
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems read more
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.
