Announced by all the trumpets1 of the sky，
Arrives the snow， and， driving o'er the fields，
Seems nowhere to alight： the whited air
Hides hills and woods， the river， and the heaven，
And veils the farmhouse2 at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler sTOPped， the courier's feet
Delayed， all friends shut out， the hou百度竞价推广ates sit
Around the radiant fireplace， enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry3.
Out of an unseen quarry4 evermore
Furnished with tile， the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake， or tree， or door.
Speeding， the myriad-handed， his wild work
So fanciful， so savage5， nought6 cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly，
On coop or kennel7 he hangs Parian wreaths；
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn；
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall，
Maugre the farmer's sighs； and， at the gate，
A tapering8 turret9 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 Art
To mimic10 in slow structures， stone by stone，
Built in an age， the mad wind's night-work，
The frolic architecture of the snow.
