Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, br Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, br Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air br Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven, br And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. br The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet br Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit br Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed br In a tumultuous privacy of storm. br Come see the north wind's masonry. br Out of an unseen quarry evermore br Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer br Curves his white bastions with projected roof br Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. br Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work br So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he br For number or proportion. Mockingly, br On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; br A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn; br Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall, br Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate br A tapering turret overtops the work. br And when his hours are numbered, and the world br Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, br Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art br To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, br Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, br The frolic architecture of the snow.