Explore "The Snow" by Emily Dickinson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It sifts from leaden sieves, / It powders all the wood, / It fills with alabaster wool / The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face / Of mountain and of plain, -- / Unbroken forehead from the east / Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence, / It wraps it, rail by rail, / Till it is lost in fleeces; / It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem, -- / The summer's empty room, / Acres of seams where harvests were, / Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts, / As ankles of a queen, -- / Then stills its artisans like ghosts, / Denying they have been.