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"Snow-Bound" was written nearly half a century and a half ago by John Greenleaf
Whittier, the Quaker farmerpoet of New England.
Whittier was fifty-nine years of age when he wrote the poem, and in it he gives an account of the doings of his own family, in his own home, during a certain stormy week in December when he was a boy probably not more than sixteen years of age.

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And where was this farm home located?
A narrow, crooked strip of Massachusetts lying north of the Merrimac River after it crosses the
New Hampshire line and turns to the eastward.
This three-mile-wide strip was the poet's home during his entire life; and in its soil, in the
Quaker cemetery at Amesbury, he, with the rest of the ''Snow-Bound" household, lies buried.
This is the Whittier country, the "Snow-Bound" country.

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The snow-bound Whittier family consisted of eight people, four grown-ups and four children.
As soon as they were old enough the children all had to help with the work on the farm and in the house, the young genius who was to become one of our great American poets taking his full share with the rest.
But evenings, after the chores were done, he wrote rhymes and verses on his slate; he also wrote many at school on various subjects.

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As we read the poem, think often of the man who wrote it, of the conditions under which he was living, and of his feelings at the time he was writing it.
Remember that they did not have the amenities we have today; a storm like this caused many problems for them.

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Snowbound is a long poem depicting the power, and yet the beauty of nature.
It also gives a slight insight to the culture and activities of the time period.
The speaker in "Snowbound" is not a character in the story, but rather the narrator is telling the story from a third-person perspective.
He is narrating casually what he sees, and what is happening during the snowstorm. It is important to remember that this was written in the early 1800s, where weatherproof houses and excellent heating did not exist, so the snowstorm was a much more powerful enemy than it would be today.

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The tone of the poem is distinct. The narrator is drawing a beautiful picture of the snowstorm, rather than an image of horror despite the fact that the characters suffered from it. The tension was obviously of human against nature. More specifically, the family against the snowstorm.
The conflict continues until the very end, when the man arrives home at last, sheltered from the snowstorm.

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The poem has a great deal of imagery throughout the entire thing.
Metaphors are used constantly, although similes are scarce.
Figurative images play the most important role in the story, because it seems as though a new image is used every other line.
The form of the poem is constant, but it is also relaxed.
Lines are rhymed in pairs, with an occasional random break in the rhyming scheme. The stanzas are also relaxed in the sense that there is no definite length of each one. The stanzas vary in length, but they are generally fairly long.
In conclusion, this poem tells a unique and classic story in a beautiful way, making it known as an American
Classic.

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1.
Read poem as a class
2. Explicate the first stanza as a class
3. On your own, identify two or three literary elements
PER stanza: allusions, imagery, personification, metaphor etc..
4. Highlight them and write an explanation in margin
5. In collaborative groups, each student will share the most significant image from each stanza. Have EACH member of your group try to decide why you selected it.
After they have done this, explain to the group your rationale. EACH member shares four times!!!
6. Quick Write: on the back of the poem, write a summary and analysis of the poem. What did you like about it? How did you relate to it?

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The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.

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A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.