The Magic of Snow: Seven Poems by Cummings, Frost, Housman, Lampman, Lowell, Rossetti

Snow is that white substance that falls, like manna from heaven, creating incomparable winter wonderlands. Freshly fallen snow often evokes spiritual imagery of purity. Magically and mystically, winter's world is encased in a sparkling chrysalis that calls to the child in all of us. Only the heart of a child could respond with such excitement to snow's transformation of familiar landscapes into a land of unending enchantment.

Whether gentle snowflakes or brutal blizzards, snow demands our attention. And in the time that we notice the falling or fallen snow, we undergo a shift in our reality. We may fall under its enchantment, exude childish joy, and change our day's plans to head for the slopes, experience the utter joy of flapping arms and legs in wildly creating snow angels, take a merry magic carpet ride on toboggans down glistening hills, enjoy the comedy of snowball fights, build a welcoming snow family, or skate with the wind on frozen ponds or lakes.

Or we may crumple into grumpiness by its inconvenient intrusion upon our tightly scheduled lives. Bowled over by irritation, we fail to appreciate the wondrous beauty of snow.

February is a rite of passage month for snow. Will snow cease on March 2nd, as decreed by Camelot? Or will winter bluster on for several more months, cramping spring's style and encouraging the discontent of cabin fever?

"the country I come from is called the midwest"

I grew up in the Midwest. The heartland is a place unto itself, as acknowledged by Bob Dylan: "the country I come from is called the midwest." The rules of Camelot do not apply there. Winter is definitely not held in thrall until December. A late Easter invariably means more winter and less spring.

The remote outpost on the east coast where I now live has had mild winters for almost nine years. Then snow fell in December 2009 and kept falling all the way into February. Honestly, sometimes I appreciated the pristine environment, and other times I wished that I were the sun and could melt every last snowflake. I had lost the habit of winter.

Although enchanted poetically and artistically by snow, I have a genetic predisposition for sunnier climes. My father lived much of his youth in Florida and maintained a love for that exotic state for the rest of his life. My maternal grandfather fell under the unique spell of Santa Barbara and transmitted that love down to me by way of memories eloquently shared by his conscientious youngest daughter, my mother, she of the translucent skin and gorgeous waves of chestnut hair.

I grew up with the world's poetry. My father's library was filled with poetry, along with linguistics, history, music, art, adventure, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and so much more. The greatest sadness of my life was that he passed away in my tenth year. Later I remember coming across a short story that he had written about the poet Robert Browning. To this day I clearly recall being captivated by the opening sentences: "What? Don't know Browning?" Was Browning his favorite poet? I do not know. I know that he had all of Alfred Lord Tennyson's poems as well as those of John Keats. My father's father loved Keats and quoted him daily on rounds through his red grapefruit orchard in Florida.

My maternal grandmother also loved poetry. She loved poetry so much that she committed a massive number of poems --- apparently as innumerable as the stars --- to memory. Every day of her life as a mother, Grandmother Laura easily and lovingly quoted a different poem, in its entirety.

"The snow had begun in the gloaming, and busily all the night had been heaping field and highway with a silence deep and white"

Over a decade ago, I was reminded of this amazing talent and beautiful gift during the last year of my mother's life. It was her last winter here on planet Earth. I awoke to a snowy scene outside my window. Snow was not part of my plan for that day. Stumbling wearily to the living room, my mind full of shifting and rescheduling, I glanced at my mother, sitting near the patio doors, with a slight smile on her face.

She turned to me and gently quoted: "The snow had begun in the gloaming, and busily all the night had been heaping field and highway with a silence deep and white."

I stopped, transfixed by the sheer beauty of the words that were so expertly crafted by a long-gone poet, James Russell Lowell, and that so perfectly captured the essence of the magic of snow: it is suddenly before us. From James Russell Lowell to Grandmother Laura to my mother to me a thing of beauty --- the pure visual beauty of snow expressed in the pure beauty of poetry --- was shared, fully, freely, timelessly. And the beauty of a thing of beauty, in the eternal words of John Keats, is that it is "a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep."

"has given my heart a change of mood and saved some part of a day I had rued"

The memory of that timeless moment came unbidden to me today. An immediate shift in my consciousness occurred. The heavy cloud of daily worries evaporated and that gentle memory, in the evocative words of Robert Frost, gave "my heart a change of mood and saved some part of a day I had rued."

Suddenly cherished poems celebrating snow came to me. Hence, this hub was created in praise of snow and all that it represents for the child in all of us.

Snowy Poems from America

Four poems by three American poets are featured: E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, and James Russell Lowell.

By far the most enigmatic poem is "Snow" by E.E. Cummings. For me, this poem captures the mystical, elusive beauty of snow. It is not an easy poem to commit to memory, and it presents difficulties in reciting. And yet the little poem's very transcendence of obvious sense casts a mysterious spell, enticing readers to decipher its alluring, baffling code.

James Russell Lowell's poem conjures for me images of invisible fairies lovingly spinning water drops into unique snowflakes.

Although Robert Frost's two poems are brief, they evoke powerful images of the clarity that nature constantly gifts us.

Snowy Poem from Canada

Archibald Lampman's inimitable poem precisely captures the interplay of the reality of Canada's snowy vastness with the dreamy, other-worldly inspiration of snow's enchanting landscapes.

Snowy Poems from Great Britain

A.E. Housman's quiet poem bespeaks nature's gentle messages. For me, his poem epitomizes the harmony that nature inserts, unbeknownst oftentimes to us, into our lives: despite often being viewed as deeply pessimistic, even this wistful British poet could not escape from snow's comforting enchantment.

Christina Rossetti's magnificent Christmas poem, "In the Bleak Midwinter," was published after this sensitive poet's death. This popular tribute to the enduring hold of Jesus upon his admirers' hearts was first set beautifully to music by English composer Gustav Theodore Holst (September 21, 1874-May 25, 1934) in 1906. Another beloved setting was composed by English composer and organist Harold Edwin Darke (October 29, 1888-November 28, 1976).

The Mosaic of Snow

In short, this concise treasury of seven poets from three English-speaking countries displays the universality of snow's magical, transformative effects. The poems form an ever-changing mosaic of lovely images and memorable phrases that may very well cast a Camelot glow upon the next dreary blizzard.

The poems of Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874-January 29, 1963) typically weave complex philosophical themes within the rural context of early twentieth-century New England. Robert received four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry and was awarded over 40 honorary degrees --- powerful recognition of the natural intelligence of this weaver of words who felt impelled by economic necessity to drop out of Harvard University after following a course of liberal arts for two years .

The image of this venerable, elderly poet reading his tantalizing poem, "The Gift Outright," at the presidential inauguration of fellow New Englander John F. Kennedy on January 20, 1961 epitomizes his compelling ability to strike a chord across time and place directly into our shared humanity. Old or young, rich or poor, educated or uneducated, city slicker or country bumpkin: everyone finds something of themselves in the poetry of Robert Frost.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

James Russell Lowell (February 22, 1819-August 12, 1891) moved in the rarefied literary circles of late nineteenth century Boston. His closest friends included such literary giants as Ralph Waldo Emerson (May 25, 1803-April 27, 1882), Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. (August 29, 1809-October 7, 1894), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (February 27, 1807-March 24, 1882), and John Greenleaf Whittier (December 17, 1807-September 7, 1892). He epitomized the Boston Brahmin, the compelling appositive so appropriately coined by Oliver Wendell Holmes in his article, "The Professor's Story," in the January 1860 issue of the Atlantic Monthly (of which James was editor). Boston Brahmins are prominent, blue-blood families of New England whose ancestors were involved in the founding and successful settlement of Boston.

Suicidal throughout his life, James was deeply depressed by the deaths of three out of his four children in infancy. Written in 1847, "The First Snowfall" expresses James' grief over the death of his child, Blanche (December 31, 1845-March 19, 1847). The poignant image of the mound of Blanche's pint-size grave "heaped so high" with snow always reminds me of the "swelling of the ground" in Emily Dickinson's powerful poem "Because I Could Not Stop for Death" that led to her memorable observation that the carriage in which Death escorted her was pulled by horses whose heads "were toward eternity."

One of my Grandmother Laura's children died within a week of birth. I never met that amazingly talented selfless paragon of gentleness, but from what I do know of her, I believe that James' poem had great personal meaning for her, just as it had for him.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
'The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall! '

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

Edward Estlin (E.E.) Cummings (October 14, 1894-September 3, 1962) was a creative powerhouse in twentieth-century America. He painted, wrote essays and plays, and composed poetry. His autobiographical novel, The Enormous Room, written in 1922, detailed his 3 1/2 month imprisonment in a concentration camp in northwestern France, from September 21, 1917 until his release on December 19, 1917, thanks in no small part to the involvement of President Thomas Woodrow Wilson (December 28, 1856-February 3, 1924). In his unique style, E.E. began this gripping account from his father's perspective:

“For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost; and is found.”

He was lost by the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps.

He was officially dead as a result of official misinformation.

He was entombed by the French Government.

It took the better part of three months to find him and bring him back to life --- with the help of powerful and willing friends on both sides of the Atlantic. The following documents tell the story.

E.E.’s poems often combined traditional forms with an avant-garde style. His poetry abounds with eclectic capitalization and punctuation along with unusual vocabulary.

His first poem, written at the tender age of three, may very well be one his clearest (i: six nonlectures, Harvard University Press, 1953, p. 28):

O, the pretty birdie, O;

with his little toe, toe, toe!

cru
is
ingw Hi
sperf
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lydesc

BYS FLUTTERFULLY IF

(endbegi ndesignb ecend)tang
lesp
ang
le
s
ofC omego

CRINGE WITHS

lilt(
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lyful
of)!
(s
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BIRDS BECAUSE AGAINS

emarkable
s)h?
y&a
(from n
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ind)
nd
ArE

Archibald Lampman (November 17, 1861-February 10, 1899) served as a clerk in the Ottawa Post Office Department while pursuing his true love, poetry in a distinctly Canadian style. Archibald's outstanding contributions to nineteenth-century Canadian poetry were recognized in his lifetime with his election in 1895 by his peers to fellowship in the prestigious scholarly association, the Royal Society of Canada, which was renamed subsequently RSC Academies of Arts, Humanities and Sciences of Canada (SRC: Académies des Arts, des Lettres et des Sciences du Canada).

Archibald's unending flow of poetry was cut short by his death at the young age of 37. As with a talented Scottish contemporary, Robert Louis Stevenson (November 13, 1850-December 3, 1894), Archibald's heart was weakened from a childhood bout of rheumatic fever.

Archibald's continuing popularity is evinced by the establishment, less than a century after his untimely death, of an annual prize in his honor, the Archibald Lampman Award for Poetry, in 1986.

Archibald's moving poem, "Snow," was set beautifully to music by one of Canada's many talented singer-composers, Loreena McKennitt (born February 17, 1957). Loreena debuted "Snow" on her 1987 album, To Drive the Cold Winter Away. Please watch the YouTube video of Loreena's composition provided by megansspark.

White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;

The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.

The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.

Alfred Edward (A.E.) Housman (March 26, 1859-April 30, 1936) was an English poet who was primarily a classical scholar. Respected during his lifetime, A.E. is considered today as one of the greatest Latin scholars ever.

A.E.'s simple yet vivid poem, "Loveliest of trees, the cherry now," first appeared in his self-published collection of 63 poems, A Shropshire Lad, in 1896. The collection soon developed a following. Surging to great success during World War I, this initial glimpse of A.E.'s heartfelt grasp of the subtle nuances of words has enjoyed continuous printing ever since.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

In her day, Christina Georgina Rossetti (December 5, 1830-December 29, 1894) was a beloved English poet whose repertoire spanned children's, devotional, and romantic themes.

In my teen years, it seemed that every artist, every musician, every poet, every writer to whom I was drawn ultimately had a connection with George Gordon Lord Byron (January 22, 1788-April 19, 1824). And to my amazement, Christina, although born over six years after the fascinating poet's death, was no exception. Christina's mother, Frances Mary Lavinia Polidori Rossetti (April 27, 1800-April 8, 1886), was the sister of John William Polidori (September 7, 1795-August 24, 1821), who accompanied Lord Byron as his personal physician to Lake Geneva, Switzerland during the summer of 1816. It was during that visit that, at Lord Byron's suggestion, he and his guests wrote supernatural tales. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (August 30, 1797-February 1, 1851) was inspired to start her masterpiece, Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus. Her fiance, the beloved, doomed poet Percy Bysshe Shelley (August 4, 1792-July 8, 1822), penned the spooky, eight line poem, "A Fragment of a Ghost Story." Frances' brother began The Vampyre, which, upon publication in 1819, is credited with starting the vampire genre in English fantasy fiction.

Christina posed for some of the most famous works painted by one of her younger brothers, the artistically talented Dante Gabriel Rossetti (May 12, 1828-April 9, 1882). In "Ecce Ancilla Domini!", Christina's fresh, 18-year-old beauty easily exudes the deep faith tinged with youthful vulnerability that convey Mary's essential character during the amazing announcement by Archangel Gabriel of her blessed motherhood.

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him:
Give my heart.

According to a poll of 51 choirmasters and choral experts conducted by BBC Music Magazine in 2008, "In the Bleak Midwinter" topped the list as the greatest carol of all time. While the poem has been set to music by many composers, the two most famous settings are by Gustav Holst and Harold Darke. In the poll, the lesser known Darke setting was favored over the widely known Holst setting.

English composer Gustav Holst (September 21, 1874–May 25, 1934) set "In the Bleak Midwinter" to a hymn tune setting which he named Cranham in honor of the village in Gloucestershire, in South West England, where he was living at the time. An inveterate rambler, Gustav walked extensively throughout the outstandingly beautiful county, which encompasses the Forest of Dean and features parts of the Cotswold Hills and the Severn River Valley. The carol was composed for the English Hymnal of 1906.

English composer and organist Harold Edwin Darke (October 29, 1888–November 28, 1976) composed his setting of the poem in 1909 while he was studying at The Royal College of Music. Darke's setting presents a gentle complexity as its varying melody reflects the poem's irregular meter.

Both settings are provided below through two YouTube performances of King's College, Cambridge. Harold Darke, an Air Force veteran of World War I, stepped in as temporary conductor of the famous choir during World War II in order to allow its renowned choirmaster, Boris Ord (July 9, 1897–December 30, 1961), to serve in the Royal Air Force as a flight lieutenant.

Please watch mixailaggelos2004's YouTube video of Loreena McKennitt's instrumental performance of this beloved carol. While I love hearing Loreena's harp playing, which really showcases Gustav Holst's perfect setting, I really would also love to hear her singing the words.

This morning, two days after publishing this hub, I awakened to a light dusting of snow. Its ephemeral beauty beguiled me, reminding me once again of the magic of snow: it is suddenly before us.

My sister's wonderful kittycat, Augusta Sunshine, apparently slipped out the door as I leaned forward to feel the light wind waft through the porch. Suddenly Gusty's sleek white coat, with its black heart-forming splashes, flashed exuberantly on the periphery of my vision. Her movements were so joyous, so full of life. Adorable cat prints tracked her leaps and pirouettes across the slightly disguised landscape.

I decided to fit in a quick one-mile walk up and down the rough terrain outside my door. My sister accompanied me, but we each went at our own pace. The air was fresh, the sky was a gentle blue, and soft whiteness gentled the terrain.

Lines from the above poems drifted to me, and everything felt as new and pure as the infinity of glistening snowflakes at my feet.

 Copyright February 8, 2011 by Stessily