It’s cold, it’s grey, it’s miserable. It’s blumming lockdown again and the world has lost its mind. We are snuggled up at home with a rampaging toddler, placating him with frequent baking sessions and an awful lot of chat about trains. I felt guilty about how little time I spent promoting Anne Brontë’s bicentenary last year so I was trying to find a poem of hers to suit the season. Unfortunately, the only one I could find was ‘Music on Christmas Morning’ (too late!) and so in the end I had to switch sisters. This poem feels particularly appropriate for the world we live in – stay safe, stay warm and hold your loved ones close.
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
For past Saturday Poems, take a look at the archive in Poetry Please.