I don’t do cold weather. Yes, I’ve tried it thanks and it’s not for me. Everyone has their own way of dealing with the gloomy weather in Britain not to mention the drab industrial concrete, pollution, oppression and poverty (by which I mean that being poor in a cold, Capitalist country is less bearable than equal conditions in a sunny clime, that is, barring extreme poverty of course). We endure it each and every year of our lives. The light fades, energy diminishes, souls withdraw and the good vibrations of Summer are finally quelled along with the once-vibrant roses. The climate alone makes Northern European countries depressing. It’s snow joke! (Mark Twain once observed, “In India, ‘cold weather’ is merely a conventional phrase and has come into use through the necessity of having some way to distinguish between weather which will melt a brass door-knob and weather which will only make it mushy”).
As others were - I have not seen,
As others saw - I could not bring,
My passions from a common spring,
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow - I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone,
And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone -
Then, in my childhood…in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still -
From the torrent, or the fountain -
From the red cliff of the mountain -
From the sun that ‘round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold -
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by -
From the thunder, and the storm -
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.” - Edgar Allan Poe.