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Frost at Midnight

The speaker finds himself awake late at night listening to the sounds of frost and owls in the quiet countryside while his infant sleeps peacefully beside him. He reflects on how still and calm everything is, with the village, sea, and woods all silent. The only movement is a small flame flickering on the fire and a film fluttering on the grate. He thinks back to his childhood, growing up in the city and dreaming of the countryside while at school. He is glad his infant will grow up surrounded by nature's beauty rather than confined as he was.

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2K views3 pages

Frost at Midnight

The speaker finds himself awake late at night listening to the sounds of frost and owls in the quiet countryside while his infant sleeps peacefully beside him. He reflects on how still and calm everything is, with the village, sea, and woods all silent. The only movement is a small flame flickering on the fire and a film fluttering on the grate. He thinks back to his childhood, growing up in the city and dreaming of the countryside while at school. He is glad his infant will grow up surrounded by nature's beauty rather than confined as he was.

Uploaded by

Prakash
Copyright
© Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as RTF, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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Frost at Midnight

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud---and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. `Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft,How oft, at school, with most believing mind,Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamtOf my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang>From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,So sweetly, that they

stirred and haunted meWith a wild pleasure, falling on mine earMost like articulate sounds of things to come!So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! And so I brooded all the following morn,Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eyeFixed with mock study on my swimming book:Save if the door half opened, and I snatchedA hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,Fill up the interspersed vacanciesAnd momentary pauses of the thought!My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,And think that thou shall learn far other lore,And in far other scenes! For I was rearedIn the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the cragsOf ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,Which image in their bulk both lakes and shoresAnd mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hearThe lovely shapes and sounds intelligibleOf that eternal language, which thy GodUtters, who from eternity doth teachHimself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mouldThy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earthWith greenness, or the redbreast sit and singBetwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branchOf mossy appletree, while the nigh thatchSmokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fallHeard only in the trances of the blast,Or if the secret ministry of frostShall

hang them up in silent icicles,Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

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