A Widow Bird Sate Mourning
Come January, the days are short and the nights long. Winter has settled in for the long haul. I remember days in the woods with no sounds, but the cold wind, and possibly a scraping bough. With the snow on the ground, and the green leaves all gone, one got the feeling that life had been completely snuffed out. There among the stately trees, I found solace in the quietness of winter. It was a good place to grieve those things which had been lost, even if it was just the loss of summer.
Percy Bysshe Shelly had that rare gift of describing such scenes in his wonderful poetry. When I read this poem, I can almost see a tear drop from the eye of the widow bird. Only the ever-turning sound of the millwheel gives hope for the eternal. But that is enough. I turn towards home and spend the evening in the bosom of my family by the crackling fire, talking and dreaming of springtime.
Copyright © Jay D Weaver - January 10, 2003
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Mourning Her Mate
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A widow bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
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