Tuesday, December 22, 2009


Anne Bradstreet wrote of "The Four Seasons of the Yeare" (1650) and today it seems appropos to take note of her tribute to the year's final season. I like her use of the term "Feastivity."


Cold, moist, young flegmy winter now doth lye
In swaddling Clouts, like new born Infancy
Bound up with frosts, and furr'd with hail & snows,
And like an Infant, still it taller grows;
December is my first, and now the Sun
To th' Southward Tropick, his swift race doth run:
This moneth he's hous'd in horned Capricorn,
From thence he 'gins to length the shortned morn,
Through Christendome with great Feastivity,
Now's held, (but ghest) for blest Nativity,
Cold frozen January next comes in,
Chilling the blood and shrinking up the skin;
In Aquarius now keeps the long wisht Sun,
And Northward his unwearied Course doth run:
The day much longer then it was before,
The cold not lessened, but augmented more.
Now Toes and Ears, and Fingers often freeze,
And Travellers their noses sometimes leese.

Moist snowie Feburary is my last,
I care not how the winter time doth haste,
In Pisces now the golden Sun doth shine,
And Northward still approaches to the Line,
The rivers 'gin to ope, the snows to melt,
And some warm glances from his face are felt;
Which is increased by the lengthen'd day,
Until by's heat, he drives all cold away,
And thus the year in Circle runneth round:
Where first it did begin, in th' end its found.

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