Poetry and The Kazakhstan Tales: Lines Composed On A Snowy Sunday In February
Author’s Note: After spending my weekend preparing to teach Romantic poetry for the AIS British Literature class, I was inspired to write this while trudging through the snow to throw away my trash.
Lines Composed On A Snowy Sunday In February:
The world is awash in white,
And little tufts of cold cotton
Cling to my boots like the fading light.
I cannot tell which is heaven
Or which is snow-covered earth.
The black birds croak in the pine
And announce Spring’s stillbirth.
As it has done for all time,
Cold Death has smothered Life
Under its heavy, downy quilt,
And it shakes its head at Life
For shaming it with unfelt guilt.
The world is awash in white –
A cold, white-washed tomb –
And as I fade away with the light,
I hear a stilling heart within the womb.
Inspired by William Blake’s Songs of Experience
Sunday, February 20, 2011