Its name is snow.
Rumors of snow have been circling around campus (and, I assume, all of Missouri) for the past week or so. Today was the day. My first class was at 9:25. The second at 10:50. The third at 3:00.
I awoke at 7:20 or so and looked out my window.
I checked my texts, emails, and school announcements.
I went to my first class as normal.
Snow was to come at 11:00, they said.
Class ended and as I waited for my next class, I stared outside, willing for some kind of movement.
Not even a snowflake.
My 2nd class began. There are no windows in that room. At 12:05, we were dismissed.
As soon as I walked outside the classroom, I saw the scene outside.
My 3rd class has been canceled.
And now I shall drink hot chocolate and rejoice in the ongoing blizzard that is raging outside my window.
|Outside my window|
|During my trip from my 2nd class to the cafeteria|
A poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that we recently covered in my American Poetry class:
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.