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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.
As I saw fair Chloris walk alone,
The feather'd snow came softly down,
As Jove, descending from read more
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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!
