You probably know these lines, either from Christina Rossetti’s poem of 1871 or, more likely, Holst’s setting of them as a carol.
I know them. I used one of them as title of a book, “bleak” altered to “deep” by the publisher, who thought the former too gloomy.
Which it might indeed be. Rossetti was melancholic, iced-up with unversed emotion; with passions gone gelid which, reticent, gob-stopped, couldn’t quite state their names. [Read more…]