Name that poem...
The recent cold spell has put in mind a poem that captures chill quite well...
St Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
And on it goes. Anybody know who/what it is? Guesses?
There is something about winter, Christmas, and my approaching birthday that always makes me poetic. I read it. Hell, I even write it. I wonder why? I don't get poetic in the summer. But the cold makes me all lyrical. Today I paged through my favorite contemporary poet, Billy Collins and loved every minute. Tomorrow I might get into some other favorites. Neruda. Auden. If I'm feeling strong, The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde.
Does winter put you into odd moods? For me it's baking and poetry. What is it for you?