Showing posts with label Percy Bysshe Shelley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Percy Bysshe Shelley. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 01, 2014

Winter Snow


On this first day of the year in Chicago it has been steadily snowing since early morning.  It snowed on New Year's Eve afternoon and evening as well and we are told to expect more snow tomorrow.  This is a new year but it is not a new season; rather it is the winter of old like those I encountered and perhaps enjoyed more in the Wisconsin of my youth.  There is no better way to start this year than to present some verse commemorating Nature as she presents herself in all her snowy wonder and power.


Lines

 The cold earth slept below

The cold earth slept below;
         Above the cold sky shone;
                And all around,
                With a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow
The breath of night like death did flow
                Beneath the sinking moon.

The wintry hedge was black;
         The green grass was not seen;
                The birds did rest
                On the bare thorn’s breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o’er many a crack
                Which the frost had made between.

Thine eyes glow’d in the glare
         Of the moon’s dying light;
                As a fen-fire’s beam
                On a sluggish stream
Gleams dimly—so the moon shone there,
And it yellow’d the strings of thy tangled hair,
                That shook in the wind of night.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved;
         The wind made thy bosom chill;
                The night did shed
                On thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
                Might visit thee at will.

Percy Bysshe Shelley



Sunday, January 18, 2009

Shelley



Dirge for the Year


Last Friday I posted verses from, In Tenebris I by Thomas Hardy, a poem that seemed appropriate for our cold dark winter, but was a bit harsh, perhaps too pessimistic - even with my leavening thoughts. For a contrast I turn today to Shelley whose Dirge for the Year, in spite of its' title, contains a bit more hope than found in Hardy's poem. Consider the last stanza:


January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps -- but, O ye Hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.


Even in the depth of the grayness of winter we cannot forget the future -- the flowers that may take some months to appear, but that follow that cruelest month as sure as the snow flies today.


from The Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley, ed. by Stephen Spender. Heritage Press, New York. 1974.