The stormy March has come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies.
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The Twelve Months: Snowy, Flowy, Blowy; Showery, Flowery, Bowery; Hoppy, Croppy, Droppy; Breezy, Sneezey, Freezey
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On a very cold, snowy Sunday in February, only the pastor and one farmer arrived at the village church. The pastor said, 'Well, I guess we won't have a service today.' The farmer replied: 'Heavens!, if even only one cow shows up at feeding time, I feed it.'
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It happens so suddenly. We are going about our own mundane tasks when - a phrase of music, a shaft of sunlight on a snowy roof, a handful of yellow butterflies, or the arc of a bird diving to the earth, pierces us. For one brief moment, we are lifted out of our daily routine into the untold realms of light and beauty. Then the moment is gone. We are back on Earth - but we are not the same.
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In the cold change which time hath wrought on love (The snowy winter of his summer prime), Should a chance sigh or sudden tear-drop move Thy heart to memory of the olden time; Turn not to gaze on me with pitying eyes, Nor mock me with a withered hope renewed; But from the bower we both have loved, arise And leave me to my barren solitude! What boots it that a momentary flame Shoots from the ashes of a dying fire? We gaze upon the hearth from whence it came, And know the exhausted embers must expire: Therefore no pity, or my heart will break; Be cold, be careless--for thy past love's sake!
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Now suddenly there was nothing but a world of cloud, and we three were there alone in the middle of a great white plain with snowy hills and mountains staring at us; and it was very still; but there were whispers.
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