“Ever winter,
When the great sun has turned his face away,
The earth goes down into a vale of grief,
And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables,
Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay
– Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses.”
Charles Kingsley, Saint’s Tragedy, Act III, sc. 1
I disagree, Kingsley. I love it
when the snow has flaked the ground,
deadening the woods of any sound
past the flirting of Spring,
sweating Summer, fickle Fall,
the night all diamond-pricked
and sharp as the kettle’s whistle.
No more noise
from the hiccoughing plants and animals
crowding the air with soft scenes
cluttering the action in vague gleams
The world’s been enchanted
into a dark, stark dream,
folded in mystery and under ice.
With the solstice, time stops
and the earth breathes deeply
the crisp air to revive and
shake off the bustle of summer,
and the wind whistles in the trees,
bringing back the memories of older days.
So, Kingsley. It’s Winter.
Beauty shows a dramatic face.
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