Lokasenna
02-12-2009, 07:00 AM
I'm at University in Leeds, which is great because inland Yorkshire is much colder than my hometown on the Welsh coast. The other week we had lots of snow (in fact, its just started again!), my absolute favourite weather, and something that, until I went to Uni, I had only experienced twice in my life. I have a great view out over the city, and the other week I was looking out of the window, and the snow was lightly falling from the patchy clouds, and the full moon was hanging over the city. Having just re-read Coleridge's "Frost at Midnight" and feeling rather relaxed, my mind took the opportunity to walk in a great man's shadow. My usual attempts at Romantic poetry are usually awful, but this one is significantly less awful the usual junk.
The Winter's Tale
Celestial secrets, the shining stars,
Adorn the primal night,
A holy host of fallen czars,
that flank the Goddess bright,
Bold Luna, set in childish shade,
To haunt the mind of man was made;
The eye itself at once sublime,
Perception is the sacred art,
Mankind is echoed in thy heart,
Thou true child of elder time!
Evanescent pearl, the clouds serene,
Oe’r this too busy globe,
Fantastic, haunt the orb-lit scene,
The silent light they robe,
Dancing slowly, overhead they fly,
To fill the bastion of the sky,
Or they in raging chaos swirl,
As if in awful anger hurled,
Upon the bastion of the world;
The peace of heaven they warp and whirl.
Snow blanked canvass, the cradle feels,
Alive with deadened blight:
A fullness that in nothing heals,
A wrongness that seems right,
But the dull brain itself shall miss,
Lost in the shallow, deep abyss,
That tender sense of nothingness,
Exuding from the starry pole,
That fills the vistas of the soul,
Our petty self to soothe and bless.
The Winter's Tale
Celestial secrets, the shining stars,
Adorn the primal night,
A holy host of fallen czars,
that flank the Goddess bright,
Bold Luna, set in childish shade,
To haunt the mind of man was made;
The eye itself at once sublime,
Perception is the sacred art,
Mankind is echoed in thy heart,
Thou true child of elder time!
Evanescent pearl, the clouds serene,
Oe’r this too busy globe,
Fantastic, haunt the orb-lit scene,
The silent light they robe,
Dancing slowly, overhead they fly,
To fill the bastion of the sky,
Or they in raging chaos swirl,
As if in awful anger hurled,
Upon the bastion of the world;
The peace of heaven they warp and whirl.
Snow blanked canvass, the cradle feels,
Alive with deadened blight:
A fullness that in nothing heals,
A wrongness that seems right,
But the dull brain itself shall miss,
Lost in the shallow, deep abyss,
That tender sense of nothingness,
Exuding from the starry pole,
That fills the vistas of the soul,
Our petty self to soothe and bless.