《Impartiality》 - 免费有声读物

THE SNOW-STORM

          Announced by all the trumpets 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 farm-house at the garden's end.
          The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
          Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
          Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
          In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

          Come and see the north wind's masonry.
          Out of an unseen quarry 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 savage, nought cares he
          For number or proportion.  Mockingly,
          On coop or kennel 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 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 Art
          To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
          Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
          The frolic architecture of the snow.