Snow is rare in this land of unremitting mist and drizzle. When it arrives, this poem usually comes first to mind:
From a thousand hills, bird flights have vanished;
on ten thousand paths, human traces wiped out:
lone boat, an old man in straw cape and hat,
fishing alone in the cold river snow.
Liu Tsung-yüan (773-819) (translated by Burton Watson), in Burton Watson, The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry: From Early Times to the Thirteenth Century (Columbia University Press 1984), page 282.
Utagawa Hiroshige (1797-1858), "Mount Yuga in Bizen Province"
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it -- it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less --
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars -- on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
Robert Frost, A Further Range (Henry Holt 1936).
Of course, Robert Frost being Robert Frost, there is a great deal more afoot here than a bucolic snow scene. But what brings the poem back to me when snow begins to fall are memories of my childhood in Minnesota -- the early 1960s, when we had real snowfalls (says the aging man): snow that often began to fall at twilight (or so it seems in selective memory), and fell and fell and fell, unceasing, as we slept. "Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast." Exactly.
Utagawa Hiroshige, "Travellers on Horseback in the Snow"
The feeling of those snowy Minnesota twilights and nights was one of peace and tranquility, not dread. No loneliness; no "empty spaces;" no "desert places." This has never changed for me. I lived in Tokyo from 1993 to 1994. While I was there, I experienced a snow storm in February of 1994.
And so at last it has come. Quietly.
Has quietly come and changed everything.
This, as we watch, is what we always say:
"It changes everything. Now we can live."
And we all want to walk out into it.
Walk out into it, at night, and look up,
Thinking that this world is a simple world
While all around us it never ceases.
We can walk for miles down an empty road
And see it swirl down beneath each streetlight.
We can turn and watch our path disappear.
And it continues to quietly come.
It has come, at last, and changed everything.
sip (written in February, 1994, in Tokyo).
Utagawa Hiroshige, "Snow Falling on a Town"