The weather has look’d snowy, for several days past, but has remained, in Statu quo, till this evening; Which is pretty stormy.
The cherish’d fields
Put on their winter robe of purest white.1
I am not fond of seeing this Robe; there is something so dreary so gloomy, to me, in looking, all around, to see a dull lifeless sameness, every where, that the first appearance of snow, is quite disagreeable to me.
1. James Thomson, “The Seasons: Winter,” lines 232–233 (Poetical Works, ed. J. Logie Robertson, London, 1908, p. 194).