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Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the famer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Snow-Storm (1835) first published in May-Day and Other Pieces (1841) in: The Collected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, vol ix, pp 42-43 (1904)
Franz Schubert’s “Die Winterreise” (DV 911)(1827) is a cycle of Lieder composed–like the earlier cycle that helped establish his reputation, “Die schöne Müllerin”–to poems of Wilhelm Müller. But there is a striking shift in tone. Whereas the first cycle speaks of spring-time, effusive love and a green fuse: these songs are pathos-laden and dark, as if a spiritual winter has settled in to match the meteorological one. They speak in tones of white and gray; their love is unrequited; their artistry is great and unappreciated. Among the most beautiful and also most somber songs of the series is “Der Leiermann,” performed here by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau with Alfred Brendel on the piano. It may actually mark an emotional low point for the composer, a sort of crisis of confidence–to which he alludes explicitly in a letter to his friend Eduard von Bauernfeld just as the cycle was being brought to paper: “You achieve honors and recognition as a comic dramatist,” he writes, “but as for myself, I despair for my future. Will I spend my old age like Goethe’s harpist, dragging myself from door to door, begging for my bread?” But was it Goethe’s harpist he then had in mind, and not indeed Müller’s “Leiermann” (hurdy-gurdy player) who “trods barefoot upon the ice, his small plate always empty?” Schubert’s realization of this poem is a masterstroke of emotional release, and the piano passages carry the pathos between the stanzas, matching the beautiful, somber and utterly winter-like melancholy of the piece.
Müller is of course a lesser poet of the period and his poetry is charming, but not much of a match for Schubert’s timeless music. But consider Emerson’s “Snow-Storm” which is without a doubt one of his truly great poems. It also marks something of a departure for a man known for landscapes of the human soul. Or does it? In this work, Emerson describes a snow-storm settling over a rural setting. But the poem takes a distinctive turn inwards at its conclusion, “when his hours are numbered, and the world/ Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,/ Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art/ To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone.” Emerson has adopted the images and thoughts that rule Schubert’s “Winterreise” and govern the composition of Caspar David Friedrich’s great winter landscapes. Was Emerson familiar with Schubert’s “Winterreise”? Considering the obsession that the American Transcendentalists had developed for German Romanticism of the period from 1790-1830, that should be taken as a foregone conclusion. But the spiritual ties between these works are so strong that they hardly need documentation.
More from Scott Horton:
Conversation — March 30, 2016, 3:44 pm
Joseph Hickman discusses his new book, The Burn Pits, which tells the story of thousands of U.S. soldiers who, after returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, have developed rare cancers and respiratory diseases.
Freddie Gray’s relatives arrived for the trial in the afternoon, after the prep-school kids had left. By their dress, they seemed to have just gotten off work in the medical and clerical fields. The family did not appear at ease in the courtroom. They winced and dropped their heads as William Porter and his fellow officer Zachary Novak testified to opening the doors of their police van last April and finding Freddie paralyzed, unresponsive, with mucus pooling at his mouth and nose. Four women and one man mournfully listened as the officers described needing to get gloves before they could touch him.
The first of six Baltimore police officers to be brought before the court for their treatment of Freddie Gray, a black twenty-five-year-old whose death in their custody was the immediate cause of the city’s uprising last spring, William Porter is young, black, and on trial. Here in this courtroom, in this city, in this nation, race and the future seem so intertwined as to be the same thing.
Average speed of Heinz ketchup, from the mouth of an upended bottle, in miles per year:
After studying the fall of 64,000 individual raindrops, scientists found that some small raindrops fall faster than they ought to.
The Playboy mansion in California was bought by the heir to the Twinkie fortune, and a New Mexico man set fire to his apartment to protest his neighbors’ loud lovemaking.
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