The beauty of the morning mirrors the weight of my stalled thoughts, as if winter is a version of Yeats's weary lines--
The fascination of what's difficult--or of Wyatt's pacing fretfulness --
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart.
The frost, the snow, may not redresse my hete,Poignancy riddles these waning days of the year. O warmth and light, our beacons in the twilight. . . . A quivering candle may perform a sort of glory, but ice clutches at the heart's core.
Nor yet no heate abate my fervent cold.