December 14

He hath made everything beautiful in his time.

I, SINGULARLY moved To love the lovely that are not beloved,

Of all the Seasons, most

Love Winter, and to trace

The sense of the Trophonian pallor on her face.

It is not death, but plenitude of peace;

And the dim cloud that does the world enfold

Hath less the characters of dark and cold

Than warmth and light asleep;

And correspondent breathing seems to keep

With the infant harvest, breathing soft below

Its eider coverlet of snow.

Nor is in field or garden anything

But, duly looked into, contains serene

The substance of things hoped for, in the Spring, COVENTRY

And evidence of Summer not yet seen.

PATMORE

THE CLEAR CERTAINTY