The fiercest peaks are youngest; far below
The torn and ragged edge, a sheet of cloud
Meanders in a muddled haze. Aglow
With ice, the slate and silver speak aloud
A rasping curse: a bitter melody
Discordant and morose, with lighter tones
Left scattered by its noise. It cannot see,
Nor hear, nor taste, not feel; it has no bones
To stand, nor flesh to strike; a hollow ghost,
An outline of a banshee, nothing less
Than snow and rain and sudden gusts; at most,
A mind intrigued against itself. The press
Of wind compels at last: above the gray
And grisly mist, the mountains break away.
2 comments:
Something quick. I needed sonnets, and needed to press myself to write with determination... so I set a timer, and started writing. My hope is to do another sonnet later today, perhaps escaping the dismal horror of the last three.
Nobody knows I owe you well-nigh a dozen return comments and have been belatedly giving them here, but oh well.
I am frankly impressed and amazed you could just whip off a sonnet to time! I recall that is how Keat's and Hunt's sonnets to the grasshopper and cricket came to be. I have yet to try such an experiment. Presently they come as fast or slow as they wish. Hmm. Tame them into time? I should try.
The scene seems superbly expressed here, with the delightful addition that poetry lends, of a personified perspective. The imagery is awesome, conveying the chilly experience beautifully. Very fascinating, I could see and almost hear and taste the potent moment so commonplace and yet imbued thus, so awesome.
Excellent! I love it.
P. S. I wish you all success in crafting another while it is still today, if possible.
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