EppsNet Archive: Winter

Within the Circuit of this Plodding Life

28 Dec 2014 /

Within the circuit of this plodding life,
There enter moments of an azure hue,
Untarnished fair as is the violet
Or anemone, when the spring strews them
By some meandering rivulet, which make
The best philosophy untrue that aims
But to console man for his grievances.
I have remembered when the winter came,
High in my chamber in the frosty nights,
When in the still light of the cheerful moon,
On every twig and rail and jutting spout,
The icy spears were adding to their length
Against the arrows of the coming sun,
How in the shimmering noon of summer past
Some unrecorded beam slanted across
The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew;
Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,
The bee’s long smothered hum, on the blue flag
Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,
Which now through all its course stands still and dumb
Its own memorial,—purling at its play
Along the slopes, and through the meadows next,
Until its youthful sound was hushed at last
In the staid current of the lowland stream;
Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,
And where the fieldfare followed in the rear,
When all the fields around lay bound and hoar
Beneath a thick integument of snow.
So by God’s cheap economy made rich
To go upon my winter’s task again.

— Henry David Thoreau, “Within the Circuit of this Plodding Life”

The Lion in Winter

4 Apr 2010 /
The Lion in Winter

The Lion in Winter arrived from Netflix . . .

“That doesn’t sound too gay,” my son says sarcastically.

“What’s gay about it?” I ask. “Lions aren’t gay. Winter is not gay.”

“It’s the combination of the two,” he says.

Winter in Los Angeles

16 Feb 2010 /

USC in the foreground, downtown in the background . . .

Winter in Los Angeles

Winter Haikus

21 Dec 2008 /
Winter night

Outside the window, snow,
A woman in a hot bath

— Nobuku Katsura

See the river flow
In a long unbroken line
On the field of snow.

— Boncho

Confined within doors
A priest is warming himself
Burning a Buddha statue.

— Natsume Soseki

Through snow,
Lights of homes
That slammed their gates on me.

— Buson