“Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland.”
Because the layout of this blog had changed, it’s not as beautiful to watch the falling snow. But then, this is California, so we don’t see much of it anyway. It always amazes me that this is the post that garners the most searches.
Grab a port, or a scotch, and a comfy chair and a copy of “The Dead”, reflect on your mortality and the concept of grace and enjoy the snow falling softly and some of the finest words ever written in the English language.
“Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crocked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last, upon all the living and the dead.”