…from the quills of the dead white poets

James Thomson (1700-1748)

From pole to pole the rigid influence falls,

Thro’ the still night, incessant, heavy, strong,

And seizes Nature fast. It freezes on;

Till morn, late rising o’er the drooping world,

Lifts her pale eye unjoyous. Then appears

The various labour of the silent night:

Prone from the dripping eave, and dumb cascade,

Whose idle torrents only seem to roar,

The pendant icicle; the frost-work fair,

Where transient hues, and fancy’d figures rise;

Wide-spouted o’er the hill, the frozen brook,

A livid tract, cold-gleaming on the morn;

The forest bent beneath the plumy wave;

And by the frost refin’d the whiter snow,

Incrusted hard, and sounding to the tread

Of early shepherd, as he pensive seeks

His pining flock; or from the mountain top,

Pleas’d with the slippery surface, swift descends.

[Tribute to Anthropogenic Global Warming and all the priests thereof]

About Avadoro Worden

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2 Responses to Winter

  1. old oak says:

    So cool! Thanks.

  2. exceptional says:

    Exactly how did you have the ability to create a real fantastic group involving commenters to your web page?

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