Speaker 1: Christmas Weather in Scotland by David Gray. A winter day,
the feather silent snow thickens the air with strange delight,
and lays a fairy carpet on the barren lee. No
sun yet all around that inward light, which is in purity,
a soft moonshine, the silvery dimness of a happy dream.
How beautiful afar on moorland ways bosomed by mountains, darkened
by huge glens, where the lone altar raised by druid
hands stands like a mournful phantom. Hidden clouds let fall
soft beauty till each green fir branch is plumed and tasseled,
till each heather stalk is delicately fringed. The sycamores, through
all their mystical entanglement of boughs, are draped with silver,
all the green of sweet leaves, playing with the subtle
air in dainty murmuring, the obstinate drone of limber bees,
that in the Monk's hood bells hows diligent, the imperishable
glow of summer sunshine, never more confessed the harmony of nature,
the divine, diffusive spirit of the beautiful out in the
snowy dimness, half revealed like ghosts in glimpsing moonlight, wildly
run the children in bewildering delight. There is a living
glory in the air, a glory, and the hushed air
in the soul, a palpitating wonder, hushed in awe softly
with delicate softness, as the light quickens in the undawned east,
and silently with definite silence, as the stealing dawn dapples.
The floating clouds slow fall, slow fall, with indecisive motion,
eddying down the light winged flakes, calm as a sleep
of sound, dim as a dream. The silver misted air
shines with mild radiance, as when through a cloud of
semulucent vapor shines the moon I saw last evening, when
the ruddy sun enlarged and strange sank woe and visibly
spreading fierce orange o'er the west, a scene of winter
in his milder mood. Green fields which no kind cropped,
lay damp and naked trees through skeleton shadows, hedges thickly grown,
twined into compact firmness with no leaves, trembled in jeweled
fretwork as the sun to luster touched the tremulous water
drops alone nor whistling as his fellows do. In fabled
poem and provincial song, the plowboy shouted to his reeking train,
and at the clamor from a neighboring field arose, with
whirr of wings, a flock of rooks, more clamorous, and
through the frosted air, blown wildly here and there without
a law, they flew low, grumbling out aquacious croaks. Red
sunset brightened all things. Streams ran red, yet coldly, and
before the unwholesome east, searching the bones and breathing ice,
blew down the hill with a dry whistle by the
fire in chamber. Twilight rested eye at home. But now
what revelation A fair change, O, giver of the seasons
and the days, creator of all elements, Pale mists, invisible,
great winds and exact frost. How shall I speak the
wonder of thy snow? What, though we know its essence
and its birth, can quick expound in philosophic wise the
how and whence and manner of its fall? Yet, oh,
the inner beauty and the life, the life that is
in snow, the virgin, soft and utter purity, of the
down flake falling upon its fellow with no sound, unblown
by vulgar winds, innumerous flakes fall gently with the gentleness
of love. The earth is cherished for beneath the soft,
pure uniformity is gently borne warmth and rich mildness, fitting
the dead roots for the resuscitation of the spring. Now,
while I write the wonder clothes, the veil calmed every
wind and loaded every grove, And looking through the implicated boughs,
I see a gleaming radiance, sparkling snow refined by morning
footed frosts, so still mantles each bough, and such a
windless hush breathes through the air. It seems the fairy
glen about some phantom palace, pale abode of fabled sleeping beauty.
Songless birds flit restlessly about the breathless wood, waiting the
sudden breaking of the charm. And as they quickly spring
on nimble wing from the white twig, a sparkling shower
falls starlike. It is not whiteness, but a clear outshining
of all purity, which takes the winking eyes with such
a silvery gleam. No sunshine, and the sky is all
one cloud, the veil seems lonely, ghostlike, while aloud the
housewife's voice is heard with doubled sound. I have not
words to speak. The perfect show, the ravishment of beauty,
the delight of silent purity, the sanctity of inspiration which
overflows the world, making it breathless with divinity. So thus
with fair delaption, softly falls the sacred shower. And when
the shortened day, dejected dies in the low, streaky west,
the rising moon displays a cold blue night and keen
as steel. The east wind sprinkles ice thicker than bees
about the waxing moon gather the punctual stars. Huge whitened
hills rise, glimmering to the blue verge of the night,
ghost like and striped with narrow glens of furs, black
waving solemn or the luggy stream gathers a veiny film
of ice and creeps with elfin feet round each stone
and reed working fine masonry. O o'er the dam dashing.
A noise of waters fills the clear and nitrous air
all the dark wintry hours. Sharply the winds from the
white level moor's keen whistle timorous in his homely bed,
the schoolboy listens fearful less gaunt wolves or beasts whose
uncouth forms in ancient books. He has beheld at creaking shutters,
pull howling, And when at last the languid dawn in
wind redness re illumes the east with ineffectual fire, an
intense blue, severely vivid o'er, the snowy hills gleams chill,
while hazy, half transparent clouds slow range the freezing ether
of the west. Along the woods. The keenly vehement blasts
wail and disrobe the mantled boughs, and fling a snowdust everywhere.
Thus wears the day, while grandfather over the well watched
fire hangs cowering with a cold drop at his nose.
Now underneath the ice, the luggy growls, and to the
polished smoothness curlers come rudely ambitious. Then for happy hours
the clinking stones are slid from wary hands, and barley
corn best wine for surly airs, bites in the mouth,
and ancient jokes cracked. And oh the journey homeward. When
the sun low rounding to the west in ruddy glow,
sinks large and all the ambuskirted clouds, his flaming retinue
with darkening glow diverge. The broom is brandished as the
sign of conquest, and impetuously they boast of how this
shot was played with what a bend peculiar, the perfection
of all art, that stone came rolling grandly to the
tee with victory crown and flinging wide the rest and
lordly crash within the village inn. They, by the roaring chimney,
sit and quaff. The beaded yisqueba with sugar dashed. Oh,
when the precious liquid fires the brain to joy, and
every heart beats fast with mirth and ancient fellowship. What
nervy grasps of horny hands, or tables of rough oak,
What singing of lang's eye till tear drops shine and
friendships brighten as the evening wanes. End of Christmas Weather
in Scotland by David Gray