I don't know if April is really the cruelest month, but it's certainly the busiest for me, just by the nature of my job. Consequently, I tend to fall behind on these projects later in the month.
So let's see what we can do about correcting that.
Today's story is Permafrost, and it's another rare one where the poem came first.
I do love Edna st. Vincent Millay. I'm reasonably certain that Snuff introduced me to to her writing when he paraphrased First Fig (My candle burns at both ends;/It will not last the night;/But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—/ It gives a lovely light!) when they set the baskets alight. I couldn't find a home for that one, but I like What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why
Permafrost is cold but not unfeeling, a kind of dormancy, or emotional hibernation. The characters live with loss and the awareness of everything that might have been but never will be.
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
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