Snow is the mirror of the mood; throughout its whiteness you may live the most romantic memories or be brought back to dark souvenirs.
For, when I see the snow with its whiteness I go wandering-deeply- back and I start having a contrast between the whiteness of the snow and the darkness of my future. I start saying if only I knew whether or not my future is upbeat and whether or not it will be as white as that snow of the winter time in such a beautiful city as Ifran.
The snow is the most proficient shrink one can meet! Ever since you start beholding its beauty you feel happy or moody. But in the End you turn blissful and thankful to god�s creations and beauty.
Elizabeth Browning*
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
What time I sat alone here in the snow
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,
Went counting all my chains as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand,--why, thus I drink
Of life's great cup of wonder ! Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech,--nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.
when Robert Browning stormed his way into her life.
She was at that time a well-known author,
he was a promising but hardly known poet.
They got married and moved to Italy in 1846,
where Elizabeth made a miraculous recovery of her health,
and at the age of forty-three she gave birth to a son.
Only her death in 1861 was to separate them.
'Sonnets from the Portuguess'
were written to her husband
without thought of publication.
Robert Browning urged to publish them :
"I dare not reserve to myself, the fines sonnets
written in any language since Shakespeare's.�
Morocco
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