Glasnevin Cemetery, pictured earlier this morning.

(Picture via Glasnevin Museum on Twitter)

"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again.

(Picture: Aoife Nic Fheorais via Twitter)

"He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward.

(Picture: @IrishCultural via Twitter)

"Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.

Picture: Michael Hunt Photography)

"It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns.

(Picture: @IrishCultural via Twitter)

"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

- James Joyce, The Dead

(Picture via Rory Cobbe on Twitter)

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