It is a long way, a long way away in the land where all the Fairy Tales happen.
Out on a flat, snowcovered, endless barren field squats a tumbledown hut, and in the hut's only room sits a bent old man breathing on the ice on the windowpane. He is staring out over the lonely snow-plain which is empty, cold and trackless, while and sterile all the way to the frost-blue clouds on the horizon. The old man's breath spreads like thin steam over the pane, and freezes. The frost creaks in the woodwork. The cold steals in from outside through cracks and chinks, and long icicles hang down from the eaves like a lattice in front of the window.
The old man does not move. He scarcely blinks his eyes, so fixedly does he stare out at the horizon. Farthest out there where the flat white snowfield draws a straight horizon-line with the darkling sky, it runs down like the edge of a sea that rolls wave after wave, slowly and endlessly along a shore.
It is Mankind's Youth rushing to the Castle where the Princess and half the Kingdom are to be won.
The old man stretches his hands towards the cold window. He presses his forehead against the ice-covered pane, and his mouth quivers as if he is speaking. But no sound escapes his lips. He is as dumb as one whose soul bears a sorrow no-one and nothing can alleviate. His gaze is as fixed and tearless as in one who sees life withered and wasted and can do nothing about it. Only his brain is alive. It struggles desperately and monotonously with ever the same useless, futile thought: to stop that host.
But even if he had a megaphone they would not hear him. His voice would sound like a bird crying above their heads. For out there where they walk, the white snowfield looks like a meadow decked with poppies and cornflowers, and his house looks like a jasmine-covered abode of kisses and embraces and dreams, and the winter sky's leaden clouds like the summer's clearest air. And the dead stillness of the frost on the white field sounds like the song of unseen larks. It is green and fertile and blossoming all around, while far in front stands the castle with the Princess and half the Kingdom like a song upon the lips.
Day in and day out the old man sits and stares. The crowd never stops, and no-one ever rides to the castle. But round about him he sees only barren fields and lonely huts, huts that stand empty and waiting, and huts where old men sit like he does, staring out of frozen panes into a changeless winter, always the same, cold and white - like a memory of what is forever dead...
...out into that winter which is the Dragon slowly swallowing those who never won the Princess.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Snow by Viggo Stuckenberg )
(13-7-31 (see reverse))
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
- Bull Hawking
Emily Jane Brontë
(30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- I Am the Only Being Whose Doom, Emily Jane Brontë
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- Death is Nothing at All, Henry Scott Holland
- The Innkeeper’s Wife, Clive Sansom
- ALWAYS ON MY MIND, Stanley Oguh
- Wicketkeepers, Quir Diing Jr.
- u want? Watch 'Divergent' Free Online St.., ada ajakaunak
- Le Déluge, Alfred de Vigny
Poem of the Day
- The Miraculous Escape of Robert Allan, t.., Max Plowman
- The Battle of Sheriffmuir, Max Plowman
- General Gordon, the Hero of Khartoum, Max Plowman
- Limerick-73, DEEPAK KUMAR PATTANAYAK
- MOTHER, KASINIVENTHAN MUTHURAMALINGAM
- The Monkey, Asit Kumar Sanyal
- Krampus, Ima Ryma
- For My Love, Sandra Feldman
- I love To Run, Patrick Sant
- My Exploding Stomach, RUBAB ATWAL