I feel a quiet sadness in Richard Wilbur's "The First Snow in Alsace." This delicate little poem speaks about the first snowfall in Alsace, a territory in central Europe disputed by the French and German forces in World War I. This is a war poem covered with snow, quieted by and obscured by rumpled sheet of white.
The first stanza describes snow in a way that is strange and unfamiliar, yet it's jarring quality befits the implications of war:
The snow came down last night like moths
Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,
Covered the town with simple cloths.
Moths burned on the moon. How disturbing. Yet, the signs of war are covered by the dead snow-moths. Bomb craters are filled in, and ammunitions are covered. It's as if, for a brief respite, the horrible reminders of war's cruelty and destruction have vanished, and nature is once more free to do what it does, silently and undisturbed. Everyone: children, townsfolk and night-watchmen alike, share in the momentary, peaceful magic of the softness of a fluffy white blanket on a cold winter's night.
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