Farewell Snow.

(After Walt Whitman.)


That light, that white, that weird, uncanny substance we call snow
    Is slowly sifting through the bare branches--and ever and anon
My thoughts sift with the drifting snow, and I am full of pale regret.
    Yes, full of pale regret and other things--you know what I mean.
And why? Because the snow must go; the time has came to part.
    Yes, it cannot wait much longer--like the flakes my thoughts are melting
'Tis here, 'tis there, in fact, 'tis everywhere--the snow I mean.
    Like the thick syrup which covers buckwheat cakes it lies.

The man who says he don't regret its passing also lies.
    And wilt thou never come again? Yes, thou ilt never come again. Alas!
How well I remember thee! 'Twas but yesterday, methinks.
    When a great daub of snow fell from a nearby housetop
And when I ventured--poor foolish mortal that I was--to look,
    Caught me fairly in the mouth (an awful swat) and nearly smothered me.
There is another little trick of thine, most lovely snow--
    It is but a proof of thine affection to cling around our necks,
But still we swear--we cannot help it, Snow.
    Now it is "Skidoo," or "23 for you." Oh, cursed inconstancy of man!

Edwin C. Ranck

Edwin C. Ranck was an American lyricist noted for his work in the early 20th century. He was a prolific writer and his lyrics were often characterized by their humor and wit. One of his standout works is the poem 'The Optimist', which reflects his positive outlook on life. Beyond that, little is known about his personal life or career. He remains a somewhat obscure figure in literary history.

Edwin C. Ranck

The Lobster.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

Requiescat.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

The Rubaiyat Of A Kentuckian.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

English

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A late and lonely figure stains the snow,
Into the thickening darkness dims and dies.
Heavily homeward now the last rooks go,
And dull-eyed stars stare from the skies.
A whimpering wind
Sounds, then's still and whimpers again.

Yet 'twas a morn of oh, such air and light!
The early sun ran laughing over the snow,
The laden trees held out their arms all white
And whiteness shook on the white below.
Lovely the shadows were,
Deep purple niches, 'neath a dome of light.

And now night's fall'n, the west wind begins to creep
Among the stiff trees, over the frozen snow;
An hour--and the world stirs that was asleep,
A trickle of water's heard, stealthy and slow,
First faintly here and there,
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A Song of the Snow

Oh the snow, - the bright fleecy snow!
Isn't it grand when the north breezes blow?
Isn't it bracing the ice to skim o'er,
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How the ice crackles, and how the skates ring,
How friends flit past you like birds on the wing.
How the gay laugh ripples through the clear air,
How bloom the roses on cheeks of the fair!
Few are the pleasures that life can bestow,
To equal the charms of the beautiful snow.

Oh, the snow,-the pitiless snow!
Cruel and cold, as the shelterless know;
Huddled in nooks on the mud or the flags,
Wrapp'd in a few scanty, fluttering rags.
Gently it rests on the roof and the spire,
And filling the streets with its slush and the mire,
Freezing the life out of poor, starving souls,
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Always the same, when on a fated night
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To evil, no important triumph won,
More than if life had never been begun.

Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrifted four feet deep
As measured again maple, birch, and oak,
It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;
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Now the long-bearded chilly-fingered winter
Over the green fields sweeps his cloak and leaves
Its whiteness there. It caught on the wild trees,
Shook whiteness on the hedges and left bare
South-sloping corners and south-fronting smooth
Barks of tall beeches swaying 'neath their whiteness
So gently that the whiteness does not fall.
The ash copse shows all white between gray poles,
The oaks spread arms to catch the wandering snow.
But the yews--I wondered to see their dark all white,
To see the soft flakes fallen on those grave deeps,
Lying there, not burnt up by the yews' slow fire.
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The youth, the fairness, the all-challenging strength,
And load even Love's grave deeps with his barren snows?
Even so. And what remains?

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The April Snow-Storm - 1858.

Spread lightly, virgin shower,
Your winding-sheet of snow;
Winter has lost his power,
But mock not at his woe.

Fall not so cold and bleak,
Nor blow the breath of scorn;
Gently.    Thy sire is weak;
And thou, his latest-born.

Frail type of life thou art:
At first, pure as the snow
We come - abide - depart;
What more, th' Immortals know.

Fall gently, virgin shower,
Though wild the west wind raves;
Watch through this midnight hour
Above the new-made graves!

            -    -    -

Spread gently, virgin shower,
Your winding sheet of snow;
My heart has lost its power,
But mock not at its woe.

Fall not so cold and bleak,
Treat not her corse with scorn;
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Noey Bixler

Another hero of those youthful years
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He entered into with selfsame delight -
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As many friends among the old as young, -
So everywhere were Noey's praises sung.

And he was awkward, fat and overgrown,
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As though to meet the simile's demand.
And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and hand
Were dowered with the discernment and deft skill
Of the true artisan: He shaped at will,
In his old father's shop, on rainy days,
Little toy-wagons, and curved-runner sleighs;
The trimmest bows and arrows - fashioned, too.
Of "seasoned timber," such as Noey knew
...

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