By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Much of the U.S. northeast is currently under a great deal of snow, with hurricane-force winds and blinding precipitation. Here in the DC area, after-school activities were canceled and the University of Maryland has already delayed classes in the morning because we got...1/2 an inch of snow. (To be fair, we are supposed to get another inch overnight, and in DC terms, that's enough to paralyze the region until the three local snow plows can be sent out to the suburbs.) It was very pretty and looked like this:
Therefore, apart from chores, work, and a walk to see the above -- the bunnies were hiding in their nice warm bunny warrens -- I did little on Monday besides catch up on Downton Abbey (still rather plodding this season) and Galavant (still has gender problems but I am sad it is likely never to be back). (The cats were also hiding in their nice warm cat warrens, namely our blankets and vents.) Evening involved reading and Sleepy Hollow. Tomorrow will probably involve more of the same!