Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river,
and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped,
the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out,
the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (The Snow-Storm)