"Now winter downs the dying of the year, And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.
These sudden ends of time must give us pause.
More time, more time. Barrages of applause
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Come muffled from a buried radio.
The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow."
A “Years’ End” poem from Richard Wilbur to close, with many thanks to all my readers for your support in 2022.
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