In February

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers,
And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers;
A poet's face asleep in this grey morn.
Now in the midst of the old world forlorn
A mystic child is set in these still hours.
I keep this time, even before the flowers,
Sacred to all the young and the unborn.

To all the miles and miles of unsprung wheat,
And to the Spring waiting beyond the portal,
And to the future of my own young art,
And, among all these things, to you, my sweet,
My friend, to your calm face and the immortal
Child tarrying all your life-time in your heart.

by Alice Meynell

Comments (3)

I love this poem for challenging us to think about how much of where we are from makes us who we are; and how much of us is just humanity? Lovely write! ~
Wow, Wow, Wow! ! ! This is marvelous - this truly deserves to be recognized as poem of the day. Though as Susan said below this is more like a great work of literature. I love the way the speaker seems to be at ease with the flow of life as he points out his observations about nationality and existence itself. He talks in circles yet it all makes sense in a puzzling way. The same way life itself can feel like a puzzle with a few missing pieces.
Did you ever just want to howl with delight at a piece of LITERATURE that has just taken over your senses, your emotions, your mental faculties? I want to sit here and reread it and reread it and reread it and SAVOR its every word, its every phrase, its every pause!