Sonnet to Winter
By Emily Chubbuck Judson
Thy brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove;
And palaces of frost-work, on the eye,
Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye,
The pencil, dipped in glorious things above,
Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair!
But cold and cheerless as the heart of death,
Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath,
One soothing whisper for the ear of Care.
Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring,
We watch the bud of promise; and the flower
Looks out upon us at the Summer hour;
And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring;
Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold,
When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold.
Several of my good friends have had an absolute shitshow the past couple of days -- a couple with family members with coronavirus, a couple who still don't have power from last week's storms, and a couple who are dealing with other serious illness themselves and with family members -- so between that and the doom weather forecast we have for Thursday-Friday, I am cranky and tired.
I had a nice hour at lunch talking to two of my high school friends and we got Cava for dinner because we had a coupon, so that was all good, and we watched the season finale of The Masked Dancer, on which my favorite won, so that was at least two hours of mindlessness. I will try to be less boring and higher energy tomorrow! Meanwhile here is the gorgeous sky this evening and Katniss sharing Cava: