It sifts from leaden sieves —
it powders all the wood.
it fills with alabaster wool
the wrinkles of the road —
it makes an even face
of mountain, and of plain —
unbroken forehead from the east
unto the east again —
it reaches to the fence —
it wraps it rail by rail
till it is lost in fleeces —
it deals celestial vail
to stump, and stack — and stem —
a summer’s empty room —
acres of joints, where harvests were,
recordless, but for them —
it ruffles wrists of posts
as ankles of a queen —
then stills its artisans — like ghosts —
denying they have been —

the opening lines of emily dickinson's "it sifts from leaden sieves" readers to see snow as

a violent and dangerous force of nature.

a source of tremendous happiness for all people.

a friendly presence in an uncertain world.

an equalizing and evening influence on the world.