I, singularly moved
To love the lovely that are not beloved,
Of all the seasons, most
Love Winter, and to trace
The sense of the Trophonian pallor in her face.
It is not death, but plentitude of peace;
And the dim cloud that does the world enfold
Hath less the characters of dark and cold
Than warmth and light asleep,
And corespondent breathing seems to keep
With the infant harvest, breathing soft below
Its eider coverlet of snow.
Winter in the Unkown Eros
Oh! Plentitude of peace.... I love that line.