Today in central Illinois: cold, windy, rain all day, the sky darkened by clouds, and now that we've changed the time, complete darkness by 5:30! This is my kind of weather. I suppose it's even better in Great Britain, where Bede says that in winter the days are only six hours long. I think I'd like to join James Herriot on the Yorkshire moors on a dark and rainy November evening.
There's a feeling of exhilaration when walking through the cold windswept rainy evening, and nothing beats snuggling up safe and sound on a stormy freezing night.
I'm reminded of Saint Malachy, a poem by Thomas Merton. His The Seven Storey Mountain help me to return to the Church after a funeral Mass brought to my remembrance the grace of my Baptism. Saint Malachy captures the falling leaves, the dripping rain and the foggy quiet; the only thing the poem lacks is cold; I guess they don't very often have the privilege of a cold driving rain down in Kentucky.
You can find the poem in the back of each volume of the American Liturgy of the Hours. I couldn't find a copy on the web and the kids won't let me type the whole thing tonight. Perhaps Steven Riddle has an electronic copy tucked away somewhere, or knows of other cold and rainy poems.
ST. MALACHY
IN: POETRY 73 n.5 (FEBRUARY 1949) p.255-256
Metaphysics is the finding of bad reasons for what we believe upon instinct, but to find these reasons is no less an instinct.
Posted by: penis enlargement at October 19, 2004 02:29 AM