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It's almost here. This life is most jolly.
“Solstice” by Emery George.
Roaring fires and steaming mugs of hot cocoa. You held out hope that it would never arrive, but that bitter season always finds a way to rear its ugly head once again. By completing this form you are signing up to receive our emails and can unsubscribe at any time.By completing this form you are signing up to receive our emails and can unsubscribe at any time.Just send me your order information and I’ll send you these free supplemental materials!By completing this form you are signing up to receive our emails and can unsubscribe at any time.After completing this form, you'll be directed to a thank you page with further instructions. Let us know if you have a favourite winter poem in the comments below. I was happy to be reminded of this poem, and thought I’d pass it on to you–it’s so nice to be able to share what we enjoy and find helpful.The solstice is the darkest time of year, but it also is a time that reminds us of the lights around and within us. Dec. 21, 2015. Timothy Steele was born in 1948 in Burlington, Vermont. An Introduction to the Black Mountain Poets. At the pole, there is continuous darkness or twilight around the winter solstice.
Although the roof is just a story high, It dizzies me a little to look down. This Winter Solstice poem was written by Du Fu in his late years, when he had been living a wandering life for many years. unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend rememberâd not.Heigh-ho!Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;Blinks but an hour or two; and then,A blood-red orange, sets again.Before the stars have left the skies,At morning in the dark I rise;And shivering in my nakedness,By the cold candle, bathe and dress.Close by the jolly fire I sitTo warm my frozen bones a bit;Or with a reindeer-sled, exploreThe colder countries round the door.When to go out, my nurse doth wrapMe in my comforter and cap;The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose.Black are my steps on silver sod;Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding cake.One must have a mind of winterTo regard the frost and the boughsOf the pine-trees crusted with snow;And have been cold a long timeTo behold the junipers shagged with ice,The spruces rough in the distant glitterOf the January sun; and not to thinkOf any misery in the sound of the wind,In the sound of a few leaves,Which is the sound of the landFull of the same windThat is blowing in the same bare placeFor the listener, who listens in the snow And, nothing himself, beholdsNothing that is not there and the nothing that is.Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.The little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other soundâs the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely dark and deep.But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,And were swept up to heaven; where they glowedEach dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.From off your face, into the winds of winter,The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.Look at winterWith winter eyesAs smoke curls from rooftopsTo clear cobalt skies.Breathe in winterPast winter nose:The sweet scent of black birchWhere velvet moss grows.Walk through winterWith winter feetOn crackling iceOr sloshy wet sleet.Look at winterWith winter eyes:The rustling of oak leavesAs spring slowly nears.