The Snow – by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
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 mountains 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.
It ruffles wrists of posts
As ankles of a queen, -
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
I know I normally give a potted biography of any poet I haven’t featured before, but I’m writing this at 00.45 on Saturday and I still have a Christmas cake to marzipan. To find out more about Emily Dickinson, click on this link. Normal service will be resumed at some point.
Shaving Cream Bowl by Taylors of Old Bond Street 
Pleasantly Squashy Teddies in Red Gingham 
Pleasantly Squashy Rabbits in Blue Gingham 
Sew & Save Sewing Kit in a tin – with a little scratch 
Ladybird Book: British Railway Locomotives 
Great poem and very apropos. The snow now is very beautiful but I can’t help feeling that as we’ve now been snowed in for two and a half days, the novelty may wear off quite soon!
A lovely poem. I wonder what made you think of it? (Good to see a mention of a stump too).
Truly wonderful!
Hi, I’m Morag 2 from Maine who couldn’t understand how your pipes could freeze. Hoping you are all warm enough and thought you might enjoy seeing that a couple inches of snow can take us hardy Mainers by surprise too. Perhaps we’re not as tough as we like to make out. http://www.pressherald.com/news/surprise-storm-a-commuting-horror-show_2010-12-21.html