I imagine most people reading the title of this post will be puzzled by the name, and wonder what corner of the poetry world he hails from. And the answer is: he doesn’t. He wasn’t a poet. But, after my grandmother, he is the person most responsible for me being a poet. And he died …
Tuesday Poem – Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight”
The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud, – and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. ’Tis calm indeed! so calm, …
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A Dark Feathered Art 