Look.

CEREMONY UPON CANDLEMAS EVE

Down with the rosemary, and so

Down with the bays and misletoe ;

Down with the holly, ivy, all,

Wherewith ye dress'd the Christmas Hall :

That so the superstitious find

No one least branch there left behind :

For look, how many leaves there be

Neglected, there (maids, trust to me)

So many goblins you shall see.

Robert Herrick

Meeting.

Loth, Old Peasant Lighting a Pipe, 1660

"I wonder, old man, smelling of the wind,

Your face leathered, eyes glassy,

Blowing mist on weathered fingers --

Who am I meeting?"

Lighting his pipe 

With an ember from the fire, 

He whispered --

"I am Winter."

Winter-Sound.

NO POSSUM, NO SOP, NO TATERS

He is not here, the old sun,

As absent as if we were asleep.

The field is frozen. The leaves are dry.

Bad is final in this light.

In this bleak air the broken stalks

Have arms without hands. They have trunks

Without legs or, for that, without heads.

They have heads in which a captive cry

Is merely the moving of a tongue.

Snow sparkles like eyesight falling to earth,

Like seeing fallen brightly away.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground.

It is deep January. The sky is hard.

The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

It is in this solitude, a syllable,

Out of these gawky flitterings,

Intones its single emptiness,

The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

It is here, in this bad, that we reach

The last purity of the knowledge of good.

The crow looks rusty as he rises up.

Bright is the malice in his eye...

One joins him there for company,

But at a distance, in another tree.

Wallace Stevens

Beholds.

Wyeth, N.C., Winter, Bringer of Cold, 1909

SNOW MAN

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Wallace Stevens

Twelve.

Hillingford, Preparing the Yule Log, 1883

Hever Castle and Gardens has your instructions ...

Pagan Scandinavia celebrated a winter festival called Yule, held in the late December to early January period. Yule logs were originally lit to honour Thor, the god of thunder, with the belief that each spark from the fire represented a new pig or calf that would be born during the coming year. Feasting would continue until the log burned out, which could take as many as twelve days. During the medieval period the yule log was lit on Christmas Eve.

Parry, Welcome Yule!

The Tenet Vocal Artists perform ...

Story.

Spenser, January from "The Shepherd's Calendar," 1597

The SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: JANUARY

WINTER'S DAY

Withering and keen the winter comes

While comfort flyes to close shut rooms

And sees the snow in feathers pass

Winnowing by the window glass

And unfelt tempests howl and beat

Above his head in corner seat

And musing oer the changing scene

Farmers behind the tavern screen

Sit-or wi elbow idly prest

On hob reclines the corners guest

Reading the news to mark again

The bankrupt lists or price of grain

Or old moores anual prophecys

That many a theme for talk supplys

Whose almanacks thumbd pages swarm

Wi frost and snow and many a storm

And wisdom gossipd from the stars

Of polities and bloody wars

He shakes his head and still proceeds

Neer doubting once of what he reads

All wonders are wi faith supplyd

Bible at once and weather guide

Puffing the while his red tipt pipe

Dreaming oer troubles nearly ripe

Yet not quite lost in profits way

He'll turn to next years harvest day

And winters leisure to regale

Hopes better times and sips his ale

While labour still pursues his way

And braves the tempest as he may

The thresher first thro darkness deep

Awakes the mornings winter sleep

Scaring the owlet from her prey

Long before she dreams of day

That blinks above head on the snow

Watching the mice that squeaks below

And foddering boys sojourn again

By ryhme hung hedge and frozen plain

Shuffling thro the sinking snows

Blowing his fingers as he goes

To where the stock in bellowings hoarse

Call for their meals in dreary close

And print full many a hungry track

Round circling hedge that guards the stack

Wi higgling tug he cuts the hay

And bares the forkfull loads away

And morn and evening daily throws

The little heaps upon the snows

The shepherd too in great coat wrapt

And straw bands round his stockings lapt

Wi plodding dog that sheltering steals

To shun the wind behind his heels

Takes rough and smooth the winter weather

And paces thro the snow together

While in the fields the lonly plough

Enjoys its frozen sabbath now

And horses too pass time away

In leisures hungry holiday

Rubbing and lunging round the yard

Dreaming no doubt of summer sward

As near wi idle pace they draw

To brouze the upheapd cribs of straw

While whining hogs wi hungry roar

Crowd around the kitchen door

Or when their scanty meal is done

Creep in the straw the cold to shun

And old hens scratting all the day

Seeks curnels chance may throw away

Pausing to pick the seed and grain

Then dusting up the chaff again

While in the barn holes hid from view

The cats their patient watch pursue

For birds which want in flocks will draw

From woods and fields to pick the straw

The soodling boy that saunters round

The yard on homward dutys bound

Now fills the troughs for noisy hogs

Oft asking aid from barking dogs

That tuggles at each flopping ear

Of such as scramble on too near

Or circld round wi thirsty stock

That for his swinging labours flock

At clanking pump his station takes

Half hid in mist their breathing makes

Or at the pond before the door

Which every night leaves frozen oer

Wi heavy beetle1 splinters round

The glossy ice wi jarring sound

While huddling geese as half asleep

Doth round the imprisond water creep

Silent and sad to wait his aid

And soon as ere a hole is made

They din his ears wi pleasures cry

And hiss at all that ventures nigh

Splashing wi jealous joys & vain

Their fill ere it be froze again

And woodstack climbs at maids desire

Throwing down faggots for the fire

Where stealing time he often stands

To warm his half froze tingling hands

The schoolboy still in dithering joys

Pastime in leisure hours employs

And be the weather as it may

Is never at a loss for play

Rolling up giant heaps of snow

As noontide frets its little thaw

Making rude things of various names

Snow men or aught their fancy frames

Till numbd wi cold they quake away

And join at hotter sports to play

Kicking wi many a flying bound

The football oer the frozen ground

Or seeking bright glib ice to play

To sailing slide the hours away

As smooth and quick as shadows run

When clouds in autumn pass the sun

Some hurrying rambles eager take

To skait upon the meadow lake

Scaring the snipe from her retreat

From shelving banks unfrozen seat

Or running brook where icy spars

Which the pale sunlight specks wi stars

Shoots crizzling oer the restless tide

To many a likness petrified

Where fancy often stoops to pore

And turns again to wonder more

The more hen too wi fear opprest

Starts from her reedy shelterd nest

Bustling to get from foes away

And scarcly flies more fast then they

Skaiting along wi curving springs

Wi arms spread out like herons wings

They race away for pleasures sake

A hunters speed along the lake

And oft neath trees where ice is thin

Meet narrow scapes from breaking in

Again the robin waxes tame

And ventures pitys crumbs to claim

Picking the trifles off the snow

Which dames on purpose daily throw

And perching on the window sill

Where memory recolecting still

Knows the last winters broken pane

And there he hops and peeps again

The clouds of starnels dailey fly

Blackening thro the evening sky

To whittleseas1 reed wooded mere

And ozier holts by rivers near

And many a mingld swathy crowd

Rook crow and jackdaw noising loud

Fly too and fro to dreary fen

Dull winters weary flight agen

Flopping on heavy wings away

As soon as morning wakens grey

And when the sun sets round and red

Returns to naked woods to bed

Wood pigeons too in flocks appear

By hunger tamd from timid fear

They mid the sheep unstartld steal

And share wi them a scanty meal

Picking the green leaves want bestows

Of turnips sprouting thro the snows

The ickles from the cottage eaves

Which cold nights freakish labour leaves

Fret in the sun a partial thaw

Pattring on the pitted snow

But soon as ere hes out of sight

They eke afresh their tails at night

The sun soon creepeth out of sight

Behind the woods-and running night

Makes haste to shut the days dull eye

And grizzles oer the chilly sky

Dark deep and thick by day forsook

As cottage chimneys sooty nook

While maidens fresh as summer roses

Joining from the distant closes

Haste home wi yokes and swinging pail

And thresher too sets by his flail

And leaves the mice at peace agen

To fill their holes wi stolen grain

And owlets glad his toils are oer

Swoops by him as he shuts the door

The shepherd seeks his cottage warm

And tucks his hook beneath his arm

And weary in the cold to roam

Scenting the track that leadeth home

His dog wi swifter pace proceeds

And barks to urge his masters speed

Then turns and looks him in the face

And trotts before Wi mending pace

Till out of whistle from the swain

He sits him down and barks again

Anxious to greet the opend door

And meet the cottage fire once more

The robin that wi nimble eye

Glegs round a danger to espy

Now pops from out the opend door

From crumbs half left upon the floor

Nor wipes his bill on perching chair

Nor stays to clean a feather there

Scard at the cat that sliveth in

A chance from evenings glooms to win

To jump on chairs or tables nigh

Seeking what plunder may supply

The childerns litterd scraps to thieve

Or aught that negligence may leave

Creeping when huswives cease to watch

Or dairey doors are off the latch

On cheese or butter to regale

Or new milk reeking in .the pale

The hedger now in leathern coat

From woodland wilds and fields remote

After a journey far and slow

Knocks from his shoes the caking snow

And opes the welcome creaking door

Throwing his faggot on the floor

And at his listening wifes desire

To eke afresh the blazing fire

Wi sharp bill cuts the hazel bands

Then sets him down to warm his hands

And tell in labours happy way

His story of the passing day

While as the warm blaze cracks and gleams

The supper reeks in savoury steams

Or keetle simmers merrily

And tinkling cups are set for tea

Thus doth the winters dreary day

From morn to evening wear away.

John Clare

Dream.

Crane, The Shepherd's Calendar: February, 1898

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: FEBRUARY

The snow has left the cottage top;

The thatch moss grows in brighter green;

And eaves in quick succession drop,

Where grinning icicles have been,

Pit-patting with a pleasant noise

In tubs set by the cottage-door;

While ducks and geese, with happy joys,

Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o'er.

The sun peeps through the window-pane;

Which children mark with laughing eye,

And in the wet street steal again

To tell each other spring is nigh:

Then, as young hope the past recalls,

In playing groups they often draw,

To build beside the sunny walls

Their spring-time huts of sticks or straw.

And oft in pleasure's dreams they hie

Round homesteads by the village side,

Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,

Where painted pooty shells abide,

Mistaking oft the ivy spray

For leaves that come with budding spring,

And wondering, in their search for play,

Why birds delay to build and sing.

The milkmaid singing leaves her bed,

As glad as happy thoughts can be,

While magpies chatter o'er her head

As jocund in the change as she:

Her cows around the closes stray,

Nor lingering wait the foddering-boy,

Tossing the molehills in their play,

And staring round with frolic joy.

The shepherd now is often seen

Near warm banks o'er his hook to bend,

Or o'er a gate or stile to lean,

Chattering to a passing friend:

Ploughmen go whistling to their toils,

And yoke again the rested plough;

And, mingling o'er the mellow soils,

Boys shout, and whips are noising now.

The barking dogs, by lane and wood,

Drive sheep afield from foddering ground;

And Echo, in her summer mood,

Briskly mocks the cheering sound.

The flocks, as from a prison broke,

Shake their wet fleeces in the sun,

While, following fast, a misty smoke

Reeks from the moist grass as they run.

No more behind his master's heels

The dog creeps on his winter-pace;

But cocks his tail, and o'er the fields

Runs many a wild and random chase,

Following, in spite of chiding calls,

The startled cat with harmless glee,

Scaring her up the weed-green walls,

Or mossy mottled apple-tree.

As crows from morning perches fly,

He barks and follows them in vain;

E'en larks will catch his nimble eye,

And off he starts and barks again,

With breathless haste and blinded guess,

Oft following where the hare hath gone,

Forgetting, in his joy's excess,

His frolic puppy-days are done.

The hedgehog, from his hollow root,

Sees the wood-moss clear of snow,

And hunts the hedge for fallen fruit--

Crab, hip, and winter-bitten sloe;

But often checked by sudden fears,

As shepherd-dog his haunt espies,

He rolls up in a ball of spears,

And all his barking rage defies.

The gladdened swine bolt from the sty,

And round the yard in freedom run,

Or stretching in their slumbers lie

Beside the cottage in the sun.

The young horse whinnies to his mate,

And, sickening from the thresher's door,

Rubs at the straw-yard's banded gate,

Longing for freedom on the moor.

The small birds think their wants are o'er,

To see the snow-hills fret again,

And, from the barn's chaff-littered door,

Betake them to the greening plain.

The woodman's robin startles coy,

Nor longer to his elbow comes,

To peck, with hunger's eager joy,

'Mong mossy stulps the littered crumbs.

'Neath hedge and walls that screen the wind,

The gnats for play will flock together;

And e'en poor flies some hope will find

To venture in the mocking weather;

From out their hiding-holes again,

With feeble pace, they often creep

Along the sun-warmed window-pane,

Like dreaming things that walk in sleep.

The mavis thrush with wild delight,

Upon the orchard's dripping tree,

Mutters, to see the day so bright,

Fragments of young Hope's poesy:

And oft Dame stops her buzzing wheel

To hear the robin's note once more,

Who tootles while he pecks his meal

From sweetbrier hips beside the door.

The sunbeams on the hedges lie,

The south wind murmurs summer-soft;

The maids hang out white clothes to dry

Around the elder-skirted croft:

A calm of pleasure listens round,

And almost whispers winter by;

While Fancy dreams of summer's sound,

And quiet rapture fills the eye.

Thus Nature of the spring will dream

While south winds thaw; but soon again

Frost breathes upon the stiffening stream,

And numbs it into ice: the plain

Soon wears its mourning garb of white;

And icicles, that fret at noon,

Will eke their icy tails at night

Beneath the chilly stars and moon.

Nature soon sickens of her joys,

And all is sad and dumb again.

Save merry shouts of sliding boys

About the frozen furrowed plain.

The foddering-boy forgets his song,

And silent goes with folded arms;

And croodling shepherds bend along,

Crouching to the whizzing storms.

John Clare

Passing.

A SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: JANUARY

Withering and keen the winter comes

While comfort flyes to close shut rooms

And sees the snow in feathers pass

Winnowing by the window glass

And unfelt tempests howl and beat

Above his head in corner seat

And musing oer the changing scene

Farmers behind the tavern screen

Sit-or wi elbow idly prest

On hob reclines the corners guest

Reading the news to mark again

The bankrupt lists or price of grain

Or old moores anual prophecys

That many a theme for talk supplys

Whose almanacks thumbd pages swarm

Wi frost and snow and many a storm

And wisdom gossipd from the stars

Of polities and bloody wars

He shakes his head and still proceeds

Neer doubting once of what he reads

All wonders are wi faith supplyd

Bible at once and weather guide

Puffing the while his red tipt pipe

Dreaming oer troubles nearly ripe

Yet not quite lost in profits way

He’ll turn to next years harvest day

And winters leisure to regale

Hopes better times and sips his ale

While labour still pursues his way

And braves the tempest as he may

The thresher first thro darkness deep

Awakes the mornings winter sleep

Scaring the owlet from her prey

Long before she dreams of day

That blinks above head on the snow

Watching the mice that squeaks below

And foddering boys sojourn again

By ryhme hung hedge and frozen plain

Shuffling thro the sinking snows

Blowing his fingers as he goes

To where the stock in bellowings hoarse

Call for their meals in dreary close

And print full many a hungry track

Round circling hedge that guards the stack

Wi higgling tug he cuts the hay

And bares the forkfull loads away

And morn and evening daily throws

The little heaps upon the snows

The shepherd too in great coat wrapt

And straw bands round his stockings lapt

Wi plodding dog that sheltering steals

To shun the wind behind his heels

Takes rough and smooth the winter weather

And paces thro the snow together

While in the fields the lonly plough

Enjoys its frozen sabbath now

And horses too pass time away

In leisures hungry holiday

Rubbing and lunging round the yard

Dreaming no doubt of summer sward

As near wi idle pace they draw

To brouze the upheapd cribs of straw

While whining hogs wi hungry roar

Crowd around the kitchen door

Or when their scanty meal is done

Creep in the straw the cold to shun

And old hens scratting all the day

Seeks curnels chance may throw away

Pausing to pick the seed and grain

Then dusting up the chaff again

While in the barn holes hid from view

The cats their patient watch pursue

For birds which want in flocks will draw

From woods and fields to pick the straw

The soodling boy that saunters round

The yard on homward dutys bound

Now fills the troughs for noisy hogs

Oft asking aid from barking dogs

That tuggles at each flopping ear

Of such as scramble on too near

Or circld round wi thirsty stock

That for his swinging labours flock

At clanking pump his station takes

Half hid in mist their breathing makes

Or at the pond before the door

Which every night leaves frozen oer

Wi heavy beetle1 splinters round

The glossy ice wi jarring sound

While huddling geese as half asleep

Doth round the imprisond water creep

Silent and sad to wait his aid

And soon as ere a hole is made

They din his ears wi pleasures cry

And hiss at all that ventures nigh

Splashing wi jealous joys & vain

Their fill ere it be froze again

And woodstack climbs at maids desire

Throwing down faggots for the fire

Where stealing time he often stands

To warm his half froze tingling hands

The schoolboy still in dithering joys

Pastime in leisure hours employs

And be the weather as it may

Is never at a loss for play

Rolling up giant heaps of snow

As noontide frets its little thaw

Making rude things of various names

Snow men or aught their fancy frames

Till numbd wi cold they quake away

And join at hotter sports to play

Kicking wi many a flying bound

The football oer the frozen ground

Or seeking bright glib ice to play

To sailing slide the hours away

As smooth and quick as shadows run

When clouds in autumn pass the sun

Some hurrying rambles eager take

To skait upon the meadow lake

Scaring the snipe from her retreat

From shelving banks unfrozen seat

Or running brook where icy spars

Which the pale sunlight specks wi stars

Shoots crizzling oer the restless tide

To many a likness petrified

Where fancy often stoops to pore

And turns again to wonder more

The more hen too wi fear opprest

Starts from her reedy shelterd nest

Bustling to get from foes away

And scarcly flies more fast then they

Skaiting along wi curving springs

Wi arms spread out like herons wings

They race away for pleasures sake

A hunters speed along the lake

And oft neath trees where ice is thin

Meet narrow scapes from breaking in

Again the robin waxes tame

And ventures pitys crumbs to claim

Picking the trifles off the snow

Which dames on purpose daily throw

And perching on the window sill

Where memory recolecting still

Knows the last winters broken pane

And there he hops and peeps again

The clouds of starnels dailey fly

Blackening thro the evening sky

To whittleseas1 reed wooded mere

And ozier holts by rivers near

And many a mingld swathy crowd

Rook crow and jackdaw noising loud

Fly too and fro to dreary fen

Dull winters weary flight agen

Flopping on heavy wings away

As soon as morning wakens grey

And when the sun sets round and red

Returns to naked woods to bed

Wood pigeons too in flocks appear

By hunger tamd from timid fear

They mid the sheep unstartld steal

And share wi them a scanty meal

Picking the green leaves want bestows

Of turnips sprouting thro the snows

The ickles from the cottage eaves

Which cold nights freakish labour leaves

Fret in the sun a partial thaw

Pattring on the pitted snow

But soon as ere hes out of sight

They eke afresh their tails at night

The sun soon creepeth out of sight

Behind the woods-and running night

Makes haste to shut the days dull eye

And grizzles oer the chilly sky

Dark deep and thick by day forsook

As cottage chimneys sooty nook

While maidens fresh as summer roses

Joining from the distant closes

Haste home wi yokes and swinging pail

And thresher too sets by his flail

And leaves the mice at peace agen

To fill their holes wi stolen grain

And owlets glad his toils are oer

Swoops by him as he shuts the door

The shepherd seeks his cottage warm

And tucks his hook beneath his arm

And weary in the cold to roam

Scenting the track that leadeth home

His dog wi swifter pace proceeds

And barks to urge his masters speed

Then turns and looks him in the face

And trotts before Wi mending pace

Till out of whistle from the swain

He sits him down and barks again

Anxious to greet the opend door

And meet the cottage fire once more

The robin that wi nimble eye

Glegs round a danger to espy

Now pops from out the opend door

From crumbs half left upon the floor

Nor wipes his bill on perching chair

Nor stays to clean a feather there

Scard at the cat that sliveth in

A chance from evenings glooms to win

To jump on chairs or tables nigh

Seeking what plunder may supply

The childerns litterd scraps to thieve

Or aught that negligence may leave

Creeping when huswives cease to watch

Or dairey doors are off the latch

On cheese or butter to regale

Or new milk reeking in .the pale

The hedger now in leathern coat

From woodland wilds and fields remote

After a journey far and slow

Knocks from his shoes the caking snow

And opes the welcome creaking door

Throwing his faggot on the floor

And at his listening wifes desire

To eke afresh the blazing fire

Wi sharp bill cuts the hazel bands

Then sets him down to warm his hands

And tell in labours happy way

His story of the passing day

While as the warm blaze cracks and gleams

The supper reeks in savoury steams

Or keetle simmers merrily

And tinkling cups are set for tea

Thus doth the winters dreary day

From morn to evening wear away.

John Clare

Full.

It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it. 

John Burroughs, from "Winter Sunshine"

Thanks to Walker's Arms for the view.  What a great site.

Holst, "In the Bleak Midwinter"

 The King's College Choir performs ...

Pleasures.

Wyeth, North Light, 1996

Let there be a cottage, a real cottage, a white cottage, embowered with flowering shrubs, so chosen as to unfold a succession of flowers upon the walls, and clustering round the windows through all the months of spring, summer, and autumn—beginning, in fact, with May roses, and ending with jasmine. Let it, however, not be spring, nor summer, nor autumn—but winter, in his sternest shape. This is a most important point in the science of happiness. And I am surprised to see people overlook it, and think it matter of congratulation that winter is going; or, if coming, is not likely to be a severe one. On the contrary, I put up a petition annually, for as much snow, hail, frost, or storm, of one kind or other, as the skies can possibly afford us. Surely every body is aware of the divine pleasures which attend a winter fire-side: candles at four o'clock, warm hearth-rugs, tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample draperies on the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging audibly without.

Thomas De Quincey, from Confessions of an English Opium-Eater

Miracle.

Poortvliet, Hare, 1976

Look up at the miracle of the falling snow, - the air a dizzy maze of whirling, eddying flakes, noiselessly transforming the world, the exquisite crystals dropping in ditch and gutter, and disguising in the same suit of spotless livery all objects upon which they fall. How novel and fine the first drifts! The old, dilapidated fence is suddenly set off with the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and fluted after an unheard-of fashion! Looking down a long line of decrepit stone wall, in the trimming of which the wind had fairly run riot, I saw, as for the first time, what a severe yet master artist old Winter is. Ah, a severe artist! How stern the woods look, dark and cold and as rigid against the horizon as iron!

John Burroghs, from "The Snow-Walkers"

Jethro Tull, "Ring Out Solstice Bells"

Go.

Hilder, Kentish Oast Houses,1952

WINTER EVENING

The crib stock fothered, horses suppered up,

And cows in sheds all littered down in straw,

The threshers gone, the owls are left to whoop,

The ducks go waddling with distended craw

Through little hole made in the hen-roost door,

And geese with idle gabble never o`er

Bait careless hog until he tumbles down,

Insult provoking spite to noise the more;

While fowl high-perched blink with contemptuous frown

On all the noise and bother heard below;

Over the stable-ridge in crowds,the crow,

With jackdaws intermixed, known by their noise,

To the warm woods behind the village go;

And whistling home for bed go weary boys.

John Clare

Half-Lit.

Poortvliet, Deer in the Woods, n/d

SINGING to DEER

At solstice, the woods were bright in a snowy way, the sky pearl gray above the stately maples and gnarled burr oaks. An Alaskan marooned in the urban Midwest, it took me years to find this nearby patch of relatively undisturbed land where I can sense the power of wildness. Now I go there often, watching the seasons unfold their changeful unchanging patterns in the increasingly familiar forest.

I especially like to walk among the sleeping trees in the half-lit silence of winter dawns. The trail I follow winds and twists, new patches of mixed woodland appearing at every turn. That morning, I reached a point where the path turns sharply left to follow a small ravine. In spring, ephemeral ponds—lively with salamanders, loud with frogs—form in the creases of the forest there. But in frozen winter, I expected nothing beyond silence and wind.

So I did not see them at first, three deer beside three empty larches. When I made them out—gray-dun hides against a gray-dun world—they were motionless, white tails aloft like flags of distress. I stopped in my tracks, thinking how lucky I was to meet the animal my Celtic forebears called the spirit of wildness on that auspicious day.

I often encounter deer on my morning walks. The woods are close enough to roads and homes that we humans are no strangers to them. But like any animal of the suburban wild—squirrel or opossum or raccoon—the deer keep their distance. An instant after they see me, they bound silently away, their white-flag tails on high alert.

But this morning, the deer only stared at me across the ravine. To the left stood a tall stately doe; to the right, an older heavier one; in the center, one of the previous spring’s fawns, all gangly adolescence. Huge soft ears held high, they cast dark liquid gazes at me.

And did not run.

Desire burst in my heart: to speak to the deer, to tell them how beautiful they were, to thank them for bringing wildness to the edge of the vast city. To speak from my heart, my own little wild heart, to theirs. To celebrate the season with them.

But I stood silent, for I do not speak the language of deer. I stared silently at them, awaiting the inevitable flight. But moments stretched out like fingers of light from the rising sun, and the deer did not run away.

Then, for no reason I can easily explain, I began to sing, my voice loud in the silent forest. A plaintive minor-keyed medieval song sprang to my lips, a holiday carol I’ve known since girlhood. Lo how a rose e’er blooming, from tender stem hath sprung. . . It came a floweret bright, amidst the snows of winter, when half-spent was the night.

I thought the sound of my voice would frighten the deer away, but I wanted to speak to them, and music seemed the only way.

Just as I expected, they began to move. But not swiftly. And not into the forest. Not away from me at all.

No. One slow step at a time, the deer moved towards me.

When I started singing, they were perhaps fifty feet away. By the time I began the second verse, they were half that distance. By the time I finished the song, the deer stood just across the ravine.

In the sudden silence at the song’s end, three tails went suddenly up again, sounding a silent alert. So I began another song. Tails went down, ears moved slightly forward. Dawn light emblazoned lemon and melon stripes upon the snow as three deer listened to carol after carol after carol.

A quarter-hour passed and still they did not move. I kept singing.

It was not the deer but me who ended our encounter. The sky had moved from pearl to sherbet to azure, and I had promises to keep. I thanked the deer for listening to my dawn chorus. The sound of my words shook them awake. Tails went up, forelegs tucked up, and in an instant they were gone.

In the silence, I stared into the gray forest. Only a few months earlier, standing below a high-massed mountain glacier I have known since childhood, now shrinking fast away, its ancient snows surging down to the gray sea in cold torrents, I had felt overwhelmed with hopelessness. Do we only take from nature, giving nothing in return? If so, what use are we? Why should the universe continue to provide for us, if we are such ungrateful children?

But there on the edge of a tiny ravine, hope washed over me like light. Perhaps there is a reason for our being. Perhaps what we give our lovely blue earth is song. Beauty. Art. Perhaps that is the reason we were created: to entertain the universe. Perhaps the great spirit is amused and touched, thrilled and delighted by our childlike creativity. Today we leave art to the professionals: to those with beautiful voices and firm bodies and exciting visions. But perhaps art is not frozen moments of perfection but the process of creation itself. Perhaps we were put here to pleasure the world, making art as spontaneously and joyfully as children drawing great yellow suns with wax crayons. Perhaps we should all be singing more, and dancing, and painting with bright colors, and chanting out poems. Perhaps we silly wonderful amateurs most please the universe when we act that way.

Patricia Monaghan

The Oyster Months Notebook, revised December 2022

'Tis Winter and the Oyster Months issue forth a crisp and frigid dirge ...

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

'Tis Winter. 

REVISED December 2022 ...

Nicola Matteis: Most ravishing things (Music from the Books of Ayres)

Theatrum Affectuum

The Art of Resonance: Archlute & Theorbo Music of the Italian Seicento

Luca Pianca

Figures of Harmony: Songs of Codex Chantilly c. 1390

Ferrara Ensemble and Crawford Young

Schmelzer: Violin Sonatas

Gunar Letzbor & Ars Antiqua Austria

Zelenka: Sonates pour Deux Hautbois et Basson

Ensemble Zefiro

La Bella Minuta: Florid Songs for Cornetto, ca.1600

Liuwe Tamminga & Bruce Dickey

Brade, G. Gabrieli & Scheidt: Tuba mirum

Les Sacqueboutiers and Renaud Delaigue

REVISED October 2022 ...

A Meeting Place: Medieval & Renaissance Music for Lute & Ud

August Denhard and Münir Nurettin Beken 

Notker Balbulus: Sequnezen, Tropen & Gregorianischer Choral aud dem Kloster St. Gallen

Ordo Virtutum and Stefan Morent 

Johann Rosenmüller in Exile

Acronym and Jesse Blumberg

Thomas Morley: Fantasies to Two Voices

Jonathan Dunford & Jérôme Chaboseau

Biber: Harmonia artificioso

Musica Antiqua Köln and Reinhard Goebel

Joseph Bodin De Boismortier: The Complete Opus 37 Trio Sonatas (1732) for Flute, Viola da Gamba and Chamber Organ

Flauti Diversi

Die Weisheit des Alters: Ars moriendi im Minnesang

Ensemble Für Frühe musik Augsburg

REVISED September 2022 ...

Philipp Friedrich Buchner: Plectrum Musicum

Parnassi Musici

Le Secret de Monsieur Marais

Vittorio Ghielmi, Luca Pianca, Il Suonar Parlante Orchestra

Telemann: Sonate for Oboe, Bassoon, and Continuo

Sans Souci

Johann Jakob Walther: Hortulus Chelicus

Sills, Dirst, Dirst, and Wang (no offense)

Thomas Lupo: Fantasia

Fretwork

Fürchtet Euch Nicht: Bassoons & Bombards Music from the German Baroque

Syntagma Amici, Vox Lumini

Johann Georg Weichenberger: Lute Works 

Joachim Held

REVISED March 2022 ...

Fantasia! Dialogue for One

Pauline Oostenrijk

February 2022 ...

Jacon van Eyck: Der Fluyten Lust-hof

Erik Bosgraaf

Marin Marais: Pieces de Viole de Cinq Livre

Jordi Savall, Ton Koopmann, Hopkinson Smith, Christophe Coin, Anne Gallet

The Cosmopolitan: Songs by Oswald von Wolkenstein

Ensemble Leones, Marc Lewis

Toys for Two: Dowland to California

Margaret Koll and Luca Pianca

REVISED January 2022 ...

Scheidt: Ludi Musici

L'Acheron, Francois Joubert-Caillet

Handel: The Complete Sonatas for Recorder

Marion Verbruggen, Ton Koopman and Jaap ter Linden

Buxtehude: Complete Chamber Music

Ton Koopman

Songs of Olden Times: Estonian Folk Hymns and Runic Songs

Heinavanker

Ockeghem: Requiem; Missa Mi-Mi; Missa Prolationum

Hilliard Ensemble

REVISED November 2021 ...

Masters of the Baroque Hurdy-Gurdy

Matthias Loibner

Weiss: Sonatas for Transverse Flute and Lute

Duo Inventio

Holborne: Pieces for Lute

Federico Marincola

THE ORIGINAL COLLECTION (Autumn 2020):

Holborne: Pavans and Galliards, 1599

The Consort of Musicke & The Guildhall Waits, Anthony Rooley & Trevor Jones

Purcell: Sonatas Of 3 Parts, 1683

Pavlo Beznosiuk, Rachel Podger, Christophe Coin, Christopher Hogwood

Telemann: Trio Sonatas

Erik Bosgraaf (recorder), Dmitry Sinkovksy (violin)

German Lute Music of the 18th Century

Alberto Crugnola