lørdag 19. oktober 2013

here comes winter

 Sharp is the night, but starts with frost alive
Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. 
It is a night to make the heavens our home 
More than the nest whereto apace we strive. 
Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, 
In swarms outrushing from the golden comb. 
They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam: 
The living throb in me, the dead revive. 
Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath, 
Life glistens on the river of the death. 
It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt, 
Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs 
Of radiance, the radiance enrings: 
And this is the soul’s haven to have felt.
                   Winter Heavens by George Meredith