Oh that wind, that symphony
Of oboes wailing and moaning.
Snow in drifts high to the eves
Blowing, covering lanes leading
From iced village to iced village.
Telegraph wires and power lines
Bending under the dead weight
Of ice waiting for their moment
To snap. Shrieking horizontal
Wind piling snow on snow.
The road to the town cut off,
An umbilical cord snapped
In a white out of hill and sky.
Sheep buried with their lambs.
A community isolated and alone.
And nobody stirs from the darkening
Land as night’s cape begins to
Cover the earth with its shadow.
Only the oboes making their
Distinctive wailing sound.
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Comments about this poem (Snow Drift by David Wood )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950)
William Ernest Henley
(1849 - 1902)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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