These are folios of April,
All the library of spring,
Missals gilt and rubricated
With the frost’s illumining.
Ruthless, we destroy these treasures,
Set the torch with hand profane—
Gone, like Alexandrian vellums,
Like the books of burnt Louvain!
Yet these classics are immortal:
O collectors, have no fear,
For the publisher will issue
New editions every year. ~ Burning Leaves, November by Christopher Morley
The sun shines from a sparkling blue sky and I feel an urge to see the thick patches of snow spread over my nearest landscape of wilderness.
The snow has already started to melt when I walk into the forest and I hear an unfamiliar sound among the trees.
That is snow, that reluctantly let go of the branches and falls to the ground. Not heavy as for snow which been around for weeks.
No, it’s the dust of snow that falls as in the poem by Robert Frost.