callmemadam (callmemadam) wrote,
callmemadam
callmemadam

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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.
Tags: john keats, poetry, weather
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