Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IT SNOWS, by SARAH JOSEPHA BUELL HALE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IT SNOWS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: It snows!' cries the school-boy - 'hurrah!' and his shout
Last Line: T is a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows!
Alternate Author Name(s): Hale, Sara; Hale, Sarah Josepha
Subject(s): Snow


"IT snows!" cries the School-boy -- "hurrah!" and his shout
Is ringing through parlour and hall,
While swift, as the wing of a swallow, he's out,
And his playmates have answer'd his call:
It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy;
Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow,
Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow.
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
While health and the riches of Nature are theirs.

"It snows!" sighs the Imbecile -- "Ah!" and his breath
Comes heavy, as clogg'd with a weight;
While from the pale aspect of Nature in death,
He turns to the blaze of his grate;
And nearer, and nearer, his soft cushion'd chair
Is wheel'd toward the life-giving flame --
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burden'd air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame:
Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

"It snows!" cries the Traveller -- "Ho!" and the word
Has quicken'd his steed's lagging pace;
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;
For bright through the tempest his own home appear'd --
Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see;
There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
And his wife with their babes at her knee.
Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,
That those we love dearest are safe from its power.

"It snows!" cries the Belle -- "Dear, how lucky!" and turns
From her mirror to watch the flakes fall;
Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns,
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball:
There are visions of conquests, of splendour, and mirth,
Floating over each drear winter's day;
But the tintings of Hope, on this snow-beaten earth,
Will melt, like the snow-flakes, away:
Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss,
That world has a pure fount ne'er open'd in this.

"It snows!" cries the Widow -- "O God!" and her sighs
Have stifled the voice of her prayer;
Its burden ye'll read in her tear-swollen eyes,
On her cheek, sunk with fasting and care.
'T is night -- and her fatherless ask her for bread --
But "He gives the young ravens their food,"
And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread
And she lays on her last chip of wood.
Poor suff'rer! that sorrow thy God only knows --
'T is a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows!





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