Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the houses,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides paths and roads, the corner and the heaven,
And veils the shop at the street’s end.
The bike and traveller stopped, the postie’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of Storm.
(with apologies to Emerson)