by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
I awoke this morning to find as Samuel Taylor Coleridge did in 1798 all had been, o'er night, transformed. This great poet wrote ("Frost at Midnight"):
"The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud -- and hark, again! loud as before."
There was no owlet crying outside my aerie, but I could hear the scurrying squirrels who, glad for the heat in the rafters, made merrie at this unseasonable hour, oblivious to my
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