It’s
snowing again.
Normally,
those words would not mean much. A little bit of snow, like that which falls on
Emily Dickinson in “Snowflakes” perhaps. However, I live in New England, where we have
had several years’ worth of snow since the end of January. A few more inches of
snow means that squirrels can now stroll up to the bird feeders and help
themselves because the baffles are buried in snow. It is now possible to reach
out the front windows and make a snowball. Tomorrow folks at the town hall,
hair salon, gas station and grocery store will complain even more about the
temperature, lack of parking, slippery conditions, and wonder aloud how many
more days until the Red Sox begin spring training. (The answer is zero.
Pitchers and catchers report today!)
I’m
not sure what number snowstorm this is, or how many inches we have now. This storm doesn’t have a name, so clearly it
is not that big a deal. This is a pretty snowfall, the kind that makes you
think of Christmas Eve, or sleigh rides in the country. Except that here in the
country, the snow pack is already at least 8 feet deep, and if you tried
bringing a horse out of the barn, he’d find himself up to his nostrils in
powdery white stuff.
To
cheer myself up, I’ve been thinking about snow in poetry and literature.
Immediately
I think of The Chronicles of Narnia
and Jadis, the conniving white witch. More recently we have Elsa, whose talent
for freezing things when she’s annoyed or upset is responsible for the entire
entertainment industry lollapalooza know as Frozen.
(“Cold never bothered me anyway…”)
As
for poetry, quite a few poems have snow in their title or focus. Emily
Dickinson wrote at least 5 of them. I love “The Snow Storm” by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
However, the poem that I was encouraged to memorize in school, the poem that to
me and to many others represents winter in New England, is the one I am
including here:
“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert
Frost (1923)
Whose
woods these are I think I know.
His
house is in the village though;
He
will not see me stopping here
To
watch his woods fill up with snow.
My
little horse must think it queer
To
stop without a farmhouse near
Between
the woods and frozen lake
The
darkest evening of the year.
He
gives his harness bells a shake
To
ask if there is some mistake.
The
only other sound's the sweep
Of
easy wind and downy flake.
The
woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But
I have promises to keep,
And
miles to go before I sleep,
And
miles to go before I sleep.
Until
next time - Fancy
