With a tip of the biretta to the Laudator….
Robert Louis Stevenson, Winter:
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain
For hips and haws,
Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane
The silver pencil of the winter draws.
When all the snowy hill
And the bare woods are still;
When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,
And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs –
More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!
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Dissolve frigus, ligna super foco large reponens, atque benignius deprome quadrimum Sabina … merum. (Hor. Carmen IX).
What lovely imagery!
nice Father, thanks. Poignant rhyme. I wish I was as good a photographer as you.
Robert Louis Stevenson was an awesome poet.