There
are few things in nature so rewarding as getting up in the morning after a shroud
of snow fell during the night. This morning was no exception on Lily Rose Ranch.
A
poem about snow by Emily Dickinson
It
sifts from leaden sieves,
It
powders all the wood,
It
fills with alabaster wool
The
wrinkles of the road.
It
makes an even face
Of
mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken
forehead from the east
Unto
the east again.
It
reaches to the fence,
It
wraps it, rail by rail,
Till
it is lost in fleeces;
It
flings a crystal veil
On
stump and stack and stem, —
The
summer’s empty room,
Acres
of seams where harvests were,
Recordless,
but for them.
Road through a snowy woods
The icing on a hay cake
Waiting to be fed
Cabin is a snowy woods
A shed at a frozen pond
No comments:
Post a Comment