Snowstorm

E. Balfour Browne

Snowstorm

What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops

To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps

Incessant batter at the window pane,

Making our comfort feel as sweet again;

And in the morning, when the tempest drops,

At every cottage door mountainous heaps

Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops

Until the beesom and the shovel gain

The path, and leave a wall on either side.

The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide

With new sensations his old memory fills,

When hedges left at night, no more descried,

Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills,

And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.

The boy that goes to fodder with surprise

Walks oer the gate he opened yesternight.

The hedges all have vanished from his eyes;

Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite.

The novel scene emboldens new delight,

And, though with cautious steps his sports begin,

He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow,

Till down he drops and plunges to the chin,

And struggles much and oft escape to win--

Then turns and laughs but dare not further go;

For deep the grass and bushes lie below,

Where little birds that soon at eve went in

With heads tucked in their wings now pine for day

And little feel boys oer their heads can stray.

John Clare

John Clare is a master scene-setter. Reading this poem slowly, each detail appears vividly on my inner eye, and I come away with the sense of having experienced the poem’s world. I wonder, could a person who had never seen snow, have any true sort of understanding of it after having read this poem?