The Snowstorm

In honor of the snowstorm out the window, I am posting Ralph Waldo Emerson's "The Snowstorm" -- it is one of Larry's assigned poems. It is also one of four that do not appear in Sound and Sense.

But before the poem, an important announcement: Although there is no school today and although there may be no school tomorrow, your first two explications are due as scheduled on Thursday at 8:30 a.m. Please type them if possible. If you forgot to bring your poetry papers home, please note that the PDFs are available at the website. [ Assignments here and Explication here ] Read carefully through the "How to Write an Explication" hand-out. This explains how I expect the assignment to be completed. We will then discuss these two poems on Thursday. If you have any questions, please email me -- or use the comment box here.

Also, please remember you are responsible for reading Chapters 1-3 in Sound and Sense. We will still be having a "5-Minute Quiz" on this material on Thursday.

The Snowstorm
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

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 hill 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
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

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, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.