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Dear Gunnar,

I'm sorry; it's Robert Bridges, "London Snow."  If you don't have it, I'll send 
it.  The opening lines are as follows:


When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, 
	Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
	Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;


I used to love most of all the silence.  Now my neighbors have chimes (I 
loathe chimes and cannot understand how anyone assumes they can 
make noise for the whole block, but I love my neighbors and have said 
nothing), and they clanged and tinkled and rang through all the wonderful 
gale winds.  I shoveled throught drifts praying for a lull in the wind to see 
the white silence.

Nancy


Date sent:      	Thu, 08 Mar 2001 22:33:23 +0200
Send reply to:  	[log in to unmask]
From:           	"Gunnar Jauch" <[log in to unmask]>
To:             	[log in to unmask], [log in to unmask]
Subject:        	Re: poets and stamps

>An: [log in to unmask]
>Betreff: Re: poets and stamps
>Datum: Don, 8. Mär 2001 19:38 Uhr
>

>I know this is considered wierd by anyone who did not grow up in the
>North, but I love snow and blizzards. 

And so do I. Used to work as a ski teacher during school vacations...aah,
those were the days! To say it with Brooke: 

The day that youth had died,
There came to his grave-side,
In decent mourning, from the country's ends,
Those scatter'd friends
Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,
And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,
In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,
The days and nights and dawnings of the time
When youth kept open house.

> It is stunningly white and beautiful, and 
>we've had none for years like this.

....and it muffles all sound!

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

> If you have read Rupert Brook's poem 
>about snow, it is like that.  

Which poem are you referring to, Nancy?


Gunnar