Poetry is the deification of reality. - Edith Sitwell

Our hearts seemed safe in our breasts and sang to the
Light — The marrow in the bone
We dreamed was safe. . . the blood in the veins, the
sap in the tree
Were springs of Deity.

Still falls the Rain -
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss -
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.