The green park in winter.

The snow fell lightly as the footsteps of children. The snow lay masking the trim pathways, shrouding the trodden grass, the snow as far as one could see, on the housetops, on the trees. The sky was low, heavy with the cruel cold, and the light was grey and dim. In a long line gleamed the round lamps, and entangled with the leafless trees was a violet mist, and it trailed along the ground like a train of the winter night. The piercing cold had killed the colors, but the mist was violet, exquisitely soft, but cold,  cold so the weary heart could scarcely endure its anguish. The houses of Carlton House Terrace were dark menacing masses against the whiteness of the snow. The day dwindled into ghostly silence and there was no glimpse even of the setting sun. Gray sky grew darker and the lights gleamed more brightly, surrounded each one by a pale aureole.

From: the year 1900 in A Writers Notebook, M. Somerset Maugham