
Sorry for the double post, but with my recent fondness for posting classic calendar-related poems here, I just felt I should add this:
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
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....
"The Eve of St. Agnes", John Keats. (January 20 is St. Agnes' eve.)
Todd Jensen
posted @ Sat, Jan 20, 2024 7:51:12 pm EST from 174.72.60.154