Feels not within her pallid cheek
The rich blood mantling warm,
Like her who, laughing, shakes the snow
From powdered tress and form.
A tasteful hand the snow hath—
For on the storied pane
I saw its Alpine landscapes traced
With arch and sculptured fane,
Where high o'er hoary-headed cliffs
The dizzy Simplon wound,
And old cathedrals reared their towers
With Gothic tracery bound.
I think it hath a tender heart,
For I marked it while it crept
To spread a sheltering mantle where
The infant blossom slept.
It doth to Earth a deed of love—
Though in a wintry way;
And her turf-gown will be greener
For the snow that's fallen to-day.
The occurrence of slight snow-storms, being unusually frequent during the autumn of 1843, I amused myself with making the following simple calendar of them in their order of succession.
