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

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

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.

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.]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.