Beautiful Snow

Beautiful Snow.

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and earth below;
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,

Beautiful snow! it can do no wrong;
Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak,
Beautiful snow from the Heaven above,
Pure as an angel, gentle as love!

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go,
Whirling about in their maddenidg fun,
It plays in its glee with every one.

It lights on the face and sparkles the eye,
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound
Snap at the chrystals that eddy around—
The town is alive and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow!

How the wild crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by,
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye—

Over the crust of the beautiful snow;
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by,
To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet.
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

Once I was pure as the snow—but I fell!
Fell like the snow-flakes from Heaven to hell;
Fell to be trampled as filth in the street;
Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat;

Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating the living and fearing the dead;
Merciful God! have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like its crystal, a heart like its glow;
Flattered and sought for the charms of my face;
(The happy possessor of ev’ry grace,)

God, and myself, I’ve lost by my fall;
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by,
Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh;
For all that is on or about me, I know,
There is nothing that’s pure but the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that the beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it should be, when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice strikes my desperate brain.

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan,
To be heard in the street of the crazy town;
Gone mad in its joy of the snow coining down;
To be and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

Item Information help

  • Item ID
    bsvg200709
  • Genre
    broadsides
  • Illustrated
  • DCMI Type
    Still Image
  • Extent
    25.5 cm x 17.5 cm
  • Title
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