Snow

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.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen,-
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

~Emily Dickinson

This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to Snow

  1. nat @book, line, and sinker
    Twitter: booklineNsinker
    says:

    love the poem but not the thought of snow already! i was just in florida for the weekend and as i walked around in capri pants and polo shirts wondered why i’d live anywhere else! lol. we’re getting ready for the snow up here in the northeast. if i can get a snow day from school in the deal, then i’m okay about snow. have a nice weekend!

  2. Sandy
    Twitter: youvegottaread
    says:

    Beautiful poem! That is as close to snow as I’m going to get for a long while, I am afraid.

  3. Kathleen says:

    Beautiful poem and picture!