CMP Review 2025-03-08

March 8, 2025

Snow

(Archibald Lampman, 1899, Ottawa, Canada. This was the final poem he wrote before he died.)

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 are 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 for a-field;

Then all is silent, and the snow

Falls, settling soft and slow.

The evening deepens, and the grey

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.

@antonella.f.greco