OREGON SNOW

I’ mglad I’m not in town todayFor townfolk always have a wayOf hating snow—they stamp it offTheir feet and shake their clothes and coughAnd fume and curse it every timeIt comes. It seems a crimeTo say you love it when it snows—Down in the town. Yet I supposeThey’re not to blame—it always bringsA peck of ills and heartache thingsDown in the town. There’s suchA lot of misery—so muchThat sleeps along until the touchOf snow and cold wakes it againTo sudden pain.You really can’t blame folks a bitFor hating snow and cursing itThe way they doDown in the town—it’s natural to.

In great cascades of blinding whiteShot through with lightOf morning suns.

But here—up here, it’s driving whiteAcross the gray tree-trunks; all nightIt fell and laid one blanket moreUpon the storeWe had.And I am glad,For here—up here, it’s not a crimeTo love the snow in winter-time.It’s hip-deep in the clover-fieldBehind the barn—the woods there shieldThe sun. I took a jogOn show-shoes with the dogAcross the ditch that marks the clover’s edgeInto a straggling hedgeOf saplings—only yesterday they wereSo cocky and so straight—each baby-firA prickly little grenadier; and now—How vanquished! Every boughLimp, beaten, crushed, as ifThe snow had said—“Oh stiffAnd upright little treeHow much of meDo you suppose your arms will hold?”To which the tree made answer bold—“I am a young and husky fir—All you can give, I’ll hold, Good Sir!”A rather glib and shortRetort,At which the snow was somewhat stirred,He took the sapling at his word!For so it looked, the way the snowHad laid them low,Swamped to their ears,Those prickly little grenadiers.That’s what it is to be so smallAnd near the ground, but when you’re grand and tallYou shake your boughs and let it fallIn great cascades of blinding white,Shot through with lightOr morning suns—spray after spray.The gray boles swayWith every windy gust that breaksTo dust and flakesThe tumbling clumps,Baptizing brush and stumpsAnd huge-heaped logs—a deluge, whiteAnd dazzling bright.And still it snows,And blowsAcross the orchards in big drifts;But for the sunbursts through the riftsOf cloud today,It’s never quit. And when it goes away—This snow up here, it will be free from blameFor it will leave in beauty as it came.The sun will loosen all the bondsThat bind the baby-sapling’s frondsClose to the ground,And they’ll rebound.The ice-locked creek will show its greenAnd swirling eddies in betweenThe marble bridges flung acrossIts twisted banks of moss.Each day will see new colors peep;Gray bark and green—the deepRich sheen of laurels—short, stalky grapes,Stiff, jagged, red—and twisted shapesOf leaves turned russet, shrivelled, sere—Still dangling from the stems of the dead year—All penciled bold against the bright,Cold snow, like patterns on a page of spotless white.And each new day will leave some strange,Blue arabesque upon the eastern range,Drag streaks of ochre down the fields, and shadeThe purple brush-lands deeper where they fadeOff to the west, and pools of melting snow will holdThe winter evening sun’s last splash of gold.These are the things God keeps in storeFor us up here, when in a few days more,This snow—that’s driving hard today,Will melt away.

It’s hip-deep in the clover-fieldBehind the barn—the woods there shieldThe sun. I took a jogOn show-shoes with the dogAcross the ditch that marks the clover’s edgeInto a straggling hedgeOf saplings—only yesterday they wereSo cocky and so straight—each baby-firA prickly little grenadier; and now—How vanquished! Every boughLimp, beaten, crushed, as ifThe snow had said—“Oh stiffAnd upright little treeHow much of meDo you suppose your arms will hold?”To which the tree made answer bold—“I am a young and husky fir—All you can give, I’ll hold, Good Sir!”A rather glib and shortRetort,At which the snow was somewhat stirred,He took the sapling at his word!For so it looked, the way the snowHad laid them low,Swamped to their ears,Those prickly little grenadiers.

That’s what it is to be so smallAnd near the ground, but when you’re grand and tallYou shake your boughs and let it fallIn great cascades of blinding white,Shot through with lightOr morning suns—spray after spray.The gray boles swayWith every windy gust that breaksTo dust and flakesThe tumbling clumps,Baptizing brush and stumpsAnd huge-heaped logs—a deluge, whiteAnd dazzling bright.

And still it snows,And blowsAcross the orchards in big drifts;But for the sunbursts through the riftsOf cloud today,It’s never quit. And when it goes away—This snow up here, it will be free from blameFor it will leave in beauty as it came.The sun will loosen all the bondsThat bind the baby-sapling’s frondsClose to the ground,And they’ll rebound.The ice-locked creek will show its greenAnd swirling eddies in betweenThe marble bridges flung acrossIts twisted banks of moss.

Each day will see new colors peep;Gray bark and green—the deepRich sheen of laurels—short, stalky grapes,Stiff, jagged, red—and twisted shapesOf leaves turned russet, shrivelled, sere—Still dangling from the stems of the dead year—All penciled bold against the bright,Cold snow, like patterns on a page of spotless white.And each new day will leave some strange,Blue arabesque upon the eastern range,Drag streaks of ochre down the fields, and shadeThe purple brush-lands deeper where they fadeOff to the west, and pools of melting snow will holdThe winter evening sun’s last splash of gold.

These are the things God keeps in storeFor us up here, when in a few days more,This snow—that’s driving hard today,Will melt away.

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