snow was general all over ireland

Last night and in the wee hours of the morning the snow fell, beautiful swirling fluffy white flakes, and when I woke up this morning it blanketed the ground outside, even though it's mostly melted now. It made me wish I could recall from memory the gorgeous final paragraph of James Joyce's "The Dead," nine sentences that make up one of my favorite closing passages in all literature...and which have always made me long to see an Irish snowfall:

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. 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. 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, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. 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. 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.