Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked 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 end, upon all the living and the dead.Heading back to the window to watch it fall. Snow! It's about time!
Monday, January 16, 2012
I just looked out the window and saw a light blanket of white. "Snow is general all over Boston," I thought, remembering the final lines of James Joyce's The Dead.