noon
he said . They did not enter into his notion : hearers will not always . And so , taking his question literally , they replied , `` Sing ? Sing us of the snow-storm , the storm of stones , of which you sang at noon . '' Poor Homer ! It was easier to do it than to be pressed to do it ; and he struck his harp again : -- `` It was as when , some wintry day , to men Jove would , in might , his sharp artillery show ; He wills his winds to sleep , and over plain And mountains pours , in countless flakes , his snow . Deep it conceals the rocky cliffs and hills , Then covers all the blooming meadows o'er , All the rich monuments of mortals ' skill , All ports and rocks that break the ocean-shore .