Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight: the whited airHides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sitAround the radiant fireplace, enclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roofRound every windward stake, or tree, or door.
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he for number or proportion.
Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gateA tapering turret 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 ArtTo mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,The frolic architecture of the snow.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
On Christmas night snow came, a ticklish, caressing kind of snow. The kind that brushes your cheek for a moment, before settling down to melt into your skin, crystalline flakes catching the light, catching the wind, swirling and sparkling like tiny shards of glass glitter through the trees. Overnight the snow built it's crystal castles and offered it's wild creation up to the day, but as quickly as the sky built this frolic architecture, with equal speed it starts to melt away.
(Amy's depiction of our Merry Merrick Christmas is so sweet, give it a read!)