Announced by all the trumoets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hillsand woods, the river, and the heaven, And veilsthefarmhouse at the garden’s end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

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