
Originally Posted by
Old Whippet
Getting chilly again. Laces frozen stiff after tonight's head-torch run.
I always think of this 1st verse of Eve of St Agnes as a wonderful description of a bitterly cold night. I can't really be arsed with the next 41 verses though! Too romantic and meandering for this impatient old hound.
John Keats (1795–1821). The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1884.
39. The Eve of St. Agnes
I.
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 5
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.