Neil Perry (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
had_not_lived) wrote2011-01-26 12:21 pm
had_not_lived) wrote2011-01-26 12:21 pm
Entry tags:
♕ |[58]| wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking
[VIDEO;]
[The picture shakes and blurs a little as the camera is set on a windowsill, pointing out at... well, nothing in particular. Just the falling snow. And once it settles into place, he starts to speak.]
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 hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
[ooc; tags will be delayed after ~3 pm ;_; but i backtag foreverr!]
[The picture shakes and blurs a little as the camera is set on a windowsill, pointing out at... well, nothing in particular. Just the falling snow. And once it settles into place, he starts to speak.]
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 hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
[ooc; tags will be delayed after ~3 pm ;_; but i backtag foreverr!]
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He doesn't say anything, but this is, of course, not terribly uncommon for this sort of weather.]
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I like that one.
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Big storms do feel like that, don't they?
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They do. It's the way it hides everything. I mean... Emerson covered all that better than I could, but. He's right.
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[Neil leans into the embrace a bit, contented.]
I think I'd rather watch it from in here, though.
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[And Todd tightens his arms, smiling.]
Though I do sort of wish we had a fireplace.
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[Neil muses quietly, nodding.]
I guess they can't, really, with all the apartments.
[He sounds more than a little bit disappointed at that, but well, not disappointed enough to ruin the mood of this moment.]
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Oh, for the love of useless --no subject
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