This poem expresses the entirety of this day.
London Snow |
When men were all asleep the snow came flying, |
In large white flakes falling on the city brown, |
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, |
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; |
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; |
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: |
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; |
Hiding difference, making unevenness even, |
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. |
All night it fell, and when full inches seven |
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, |
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; |
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness |
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: |
The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; |
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; |
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, |
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. |
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, |
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze |
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing; |
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; |
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!' |
'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!' |
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, |
Following along the white deserted way, |
A country company long dispersed asunder: |
When now already the sun, in pale display |
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below |
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. |
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; |
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, |
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: |
But even for them awhile no cares encumber |
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, |
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber |
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken. |
Excitement could not be contained.
Well done.
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