from another seasonal favorite, James Thomson's "Winter, A Poem"--I was obscurely hurt by John Ashbery (such a tender Clare devotee) describing Thomson's "Seasons" as "bland" in his otherwise admirable review of the Collected Kenneth Koch in Publisher's Weekly, but surely bland like good chewy oatmeal with cinnamon and walnuts rather than cream of wheat with skim milk and equal? My sentimental attachment to Thomson (another overweight underproducer, the Scot who wrote Rule Brittania & made The Castle of Indolence look easy!) precludes such judgement...

"FOR, see! where Winter comes, himself, confest,
Striding the gloomy Blast. First Rains obscure
Drive thro' the mingling Skies, with Tempest foul;
Beat on the Mountain's Brow, and shake the Woods,
That, sounding, wave below. The dreary Plain
Lies overwhelm'd, and lost. The bellying Clouds
Combine, and deepening into Night, shut up
The Day's fair Face. The Wanderers of Heaven,
Each to his Home, retire; save those that love
To take their Pastime in the troubled Air,
And, skimming, flutter round the dimply Flood.
The Cattle, from th'untasted Fields, return,
And ask, with Meaning low, their wonted Stalls;
Or ruminate in the contiguous Shade:
Thither, the houshold, feathery, People croud,
The crested Cock, with all his female Train,
Pensive, and wet. Mean while, the Cottage-Swain
Hangs o'er th'enlivening Blaze, and, taleful, there,
Recounts his simple Frolic: Much he talks,
And much he laughs, nor recks the Storm that blows
Without, and rattles on his humble Roof."