The Snowstorm by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Redford-Leburbox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, arrives the snow, and driving or the fields seems nowhere to alight. The whiteened air hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, and veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveler 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 see the Northwind'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 fancable, so savage, not cares he for number or proportion. Mockingly, on coupe or kennel, he hangs parion wreaths.
A swanlike forum invests the hidden thorn, fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, morger the farmer's size, and at the gate a tampering turret over tops the work. And when his hours unnumbered 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, and of poem, this recording is in the public domain.