Winter
The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land . . . alack, The little people in the hills Will die!
Adelaide Crapsey
The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land . . . alack, The little people in the hills Will die!
This tiny, aching snapshot of winter wastes no time. Right away, the cold grabs hold with a “steely clutch” that feels both mechanical and merciless. The old-fashioned cry “alack” breaks in like a genuine gasp of despair, and suddenly the poem shifts from description to heartbreak.
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