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Robert Bridges

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When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town.
--
London Snow, l. 1-4 (1890).

 
Robert Bridges

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Lying, robed in snowy white
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"There's nothing ironic about being stuck in a traffic jam when you're late for something. [pause] Unless you're a town planner. If you were a town planner... and you were late for a seminar of town planners at which you were giving a talk on how you solved the problem of traffic congestion in your area, and couldn't get to it because you got stuck in a traffic jam, that'd be well ironic! [mimicking a town planner] 'I'm sorry, lads, you'll never guess!'"

 
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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 upon 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 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.

 
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Who wants to brave those bronze beauties
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