by Ralph Waldo Emerson

    Announced by all the trumpets¹ 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 farmhouse² at the garden's end.

    The sled and traveler stopped， the courier's feet

    Delayed， all friends shut out， the housemates sit

    Around the radiant fireplace， enclosed

    In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

    Come see the north wind's masonry³.

    Out of an unseen quarry⁴ 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 savage⁵， nought⁶ cares he

    For number or proportion. Mockingly，

    On coop or kennel⁷ he hangs Parian wreaths；

    A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn；

    Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall，

    Maugre the farmer's sighs； and， at the gate，

    A tapering⁸ turret⁹ 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 mimic¹⁰ in slow structures， stone by stone，

    Built in an age， the mad wind's night-work，

    The frolic architecture of the snow.

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