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!

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and earth below,
Over the housetops, over the read more

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and earth below,
Over the housetops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet.
Dancing,
Flirting,
Skimming along.

But where are the snows of yester year?
[Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?]

But where are the snows of yester year?
[Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?]

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.

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.

Our Lady of the Snows.
[Lat., Notre Dames des Neiges.]

Our Lady of the Snows.
[Lat., Notre Dames des Neiges.]

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the read more

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.

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.