“We feel the chill north winds coarse through the home despite the locked and bolted doors… this is winter, which nonetheless brings its own delight” —Antonio Vivaldi, the Sonnets*
We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously,
for fear of tripping and falling.
Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground,
And rising, hasten on across the ice in case it cracks
—Antonio Vivaldi, the Sonnets*
Keening tensile strings
We hear the cuckoo’s voice; followed by
sweet songs of turtledove and finch.
Soft breezes stir the air, but, threatening,
the North Wind sweeps them suddenly aside
Redolent of scents
Under a hard season, fired up by the sun
Man and flock both languish, and pine trees burn
Red spruce peaks
Norway maple dells
The peasant celebrates with songs and dances
the pleasure of a bountiful harvest.
And fired up by Bacchus’s liquor,
many end their revelry in sleep
Everyone is made to forget their cares and made to sing and dance
By the air which is tempered with pleasure
And (by) the season that invites so many, many
Out of sweetest slumber to blissful enjoyment