A New Year’s Poem
From Blue Mountain Bed and Breakfast
“The Flight of December”
Where did the last of December go?
Whisked away by blowing snow
Taken on the wings of birds
Lovely songs now distant words
What is changed come New Year’s Day?
Some things gone whilst others stay
Reflecting back on days gone by
Renewed delight in winter’s sky
By Elaine Anderson-Wood
January 1, 2015
Our library here at Blue Mountain Bed and Breakfast, as well as our small gift store, provide a wide variety of reading materials for your enjoyment! Below, I’ve shared one of my favorite poems that fits particularly well with this time of year.
I love Swinburne’s poetic style as he describes each season of the New Year! Enjoy the addition of photos taken here at the bed and breakfast. We wish everyone a very happy 2015!
“A Year’s Carols”
By: Algernon Charles Swinburne
HAIL, January, that bearest here
On snowbright breasts the babe-faced year
That weeps and trembles to be born.
Hail, maid and mother, strong and bright,
Hooded and cloaked and shod with white,
Whose eyes are stars that match the morn.
Thy forehead braves the storm’s bent bow,
Thy feet enkindle stars of snow.
Wan February with weeping cheer,
Whose cold hand guides the youngling year
Down misty roads of mire and rime,
Before thy pale and fitful face
The shrill wind shifts the clouds apace
Through skies the morning scarce may climb.
Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears,
But lit with hopes that light the year’s.
Hail, happy March, whose foot on earth
Rings as the blast of martial mirth
When trumpets fire men’s hearts for fray.
No race of wild things winged or finned
May match the might that wings thy wind
Through air and sea, through scud and spray.
Strong joy and thou were powers twin-born
Of tempest and the towering morn.
Crowned April, king whose kiss bade earth
Bring forth to time her lordliest birth
When Shakespeare from thy lips drew breath
And laughed to hold in one soft hand
A spell that bade the world’s wheel stand,
And power on life, and power on death,
With quiring suns and sunbright showers
Praise him, the flower of all thy flowers.
Hail, May, whose bark puts forth full-sailed
For summer; May, whom Chaucer hailed
With all his happy might of heart,
And gave thy rosebright daisy-tips
Strange frarance from his amorous lips
That still thine own breath seems to part
And sweeten till each word they say
Is even a flower of flowering May.
Strong June, superb, serene, elate
With conscience of thy sovereign state
Untouched of thunder, though the storm
Scathe here and there thy shuddering skies
And bid its lightning cross thine eyes
With fire, thy golden hours inform
Earth and the souls of men with life
That brings forth peace from shining strife.
Hail, proud July, whose fervent mouth
Bids even be morn and north be south
By grace and gospel of thy word,
Whence all the splendour of the sea
Lies breathless with delight in thee
And marvel at the music heard
From the ardent silent lips of noon
And midnight’s rapturous plenilune.
Great August, lord of golden lands,
Whose lordly joy through seas and strands
And all the red-ripe heart of earth
Strikes passion deep as life, and stills
The folded vales and folding hills
With gladness too divine for mirth,
The gracious glories of thine eyes
Make night a noon where darkness dies.
Hail, kind September, friend whose grace
Renews the bland year’s bounteous face
With largess given of corn and wine
Through many a land that laughs with love
Of thee and all the heaven above,
More fruitful found than all save thine
Whose skies fulfil with strenuous cheer
The fervent fields that knew thee near.
October of the tawny crown,
Whose heavy-laden hands drop down
Blessing, the bounties of thy breath
And mildness of thy mellowing might
Fill earth and heaven with love and light
Too sweet for fear to dream of death
Or memory, while thy joy lives yet,
To know what joy would fain forget.
Hail, soft November, though thy pale
Sad smile rebuke the words that hail
Thy sorrow with no sorrowing words
Or gratulate thy grief with song
Less bitter than the winds that wrong
Thy withering woodlands, where the birds
Keep hardly heart to sing or see
How fair thy faint wan face may be.
December, thou whose hallowing hands
On shuddering seas and hardening lands
Set as a sacramental sign
The seal of Christmas felt on earth
As witness toward a new year’s birth
Whose promise makes thy death divine,
The crowning joy that comes of thee
Makes glad all grief on land or sea.
Algernon Charles Swinburne was an English poet, playwright and novelist. The eldest of six children, he was born in London, England (1837) to a wealthy family. Swinburne’s father was an admiral, and his mother was a daughter of the 3rd Earl of Ashburnham. He was educated at Eton and at Balliol College in Oxford, but never completed a degree. The lack of a degree and his struggle with alcoholism didn’t stop him from success, however. Swinburne was one of the most accomplished lyric poets of the Victorian era- nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature every year from 1903 to 1907 and again in 1909 (the year of his death). Apparently, H. P. Lovecraft
considered Swinburne “the only real poet in either England or America after the death of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe
.” 1 Besides his love of writing, Swinburne was said to enjoy riding his pony across the moors; just a little tidbit that for me helps romanticize his character even more!
The photo on this page is taken from the copyrighted Wikipedia Algernon Charles Swinburne; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. It may be redistribute providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
1. H.P. Lovecraft, Selected Letters: Volume 1. Sauk City: WI: Arkham House, 1965, p. 73