Still (sur)Rendering

White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air
A silence everywhere

Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear

The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far afield;
Then all is silent and the snow falls
Settling soft and slow

The evening deepens and the grey
Folds closer earth and sky
The world seems shrouded, far away.
Its noises sleep, and I as secret as
Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream.

Archibald Lampman (1861-1899).

I am a winter person. I may have mentioned that before.

Snow. Cold. Mitts. Scratchy scarves. Wool socks. Parkas. Bonfires after a day of tobogganing. Cross country skiing on trails that take you to open views of the valley. Snow angels. Snowball fights. Icicles.

Even shovelling the walks.

Hot chocolate. Fire places. Flannel sheets. Old books. Sweaters. Stew. Fresh baked bread.

Yeah. It's my season.

soundtrack:Loreena McKennitt - "Snow"

Still (sur)Rendering All great truths begin as blasphemies. George Bernard Shaw
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (2) Share on Facebook There is nothing to read here. The content is over there, to your right. I may, however, at some point, put something here. Some day. Eventually. No pressure.		2003-11-28 4:31 PM snow White are the far-off plains, and white The fading forests grow; The wind dies out along the height, And denser still the snow A gathering weight on roof and tree, Falls down scarce audibly The meadows and far-sheeted streams Lie still without a sound; Like some soft minister of dreams The snow-fall hoods me round; In wood and water, earth and air A silence everywhere Save when at lonely intervals Some farmer's sleigh, urged on, With rustling runners and sharp bells Swings by me and is gone; Or from the empty waste I hear A sound remote and clear The barking of a dog, or call To cattle, sharply pealed, Borne echoing from some wayside stall Or barnyard far afield; Then all is silent and the snow falls Settling soft and slow The evening deepens and the grey Folds closer earth and sky The world seems shrouded, far away. Its noises sleep, and I as secret as Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream. Archibald Lampman (1861-1899). I am a winter person. I may have mentioned that before. Snow. Cold. Mitts. Scratchy scarves. Wool socks. Parkas. Bonfires after a day of tobogganing. Cross country skiing on trails that take you to open views of the valley. Snow angels. Snowball fights. Icicles. Even shovelling the walks. Hot chocolate. Fire places. Flannel sheets. Old books. Sweaters. Stew. Fresh baked bread. Yeah. It's my season. soundtrack:Loreena McKennitt - "Snow" Read/Post Comments (2) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top