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gertrude

July 2018

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christmas

St Agnes, a month early

The sky is leaden, the field on the other side of my hedge thick with frost. I've just watched a fox loping across and Keats' poem came into my head:

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:
Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.

Plenty more verses but this one seems so appropriate.

Comments

Funny, I've just arrived at work with the urge to listen to that track.
I heard it on the radio; beautiful.