A SPRING SNOWSTORM IN 
WASTDALE. 
 
ON rocky mountain bare 
Of grass, and meadows fair, 
Angels their trumpets blow upon the night, 
While o’er the shrinking dale 
The insatiable gale 
Roars with unconquered and impassive might. 
Their robes of snow they rend, 
And their deep voices blend 
With tempest, like that angry Amphitrite, 
His hair blown wild and loose 
On windy Syracuse, 
Lashing the waves with words of wrath, a terror 
of bright light. 
 
Here the thick snowflakes fall, 
Till mountain in their pall, 
 
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