There are novelists who are enviably skilled at plot construction, there are columnists who always manage to hit my funny bone, and there are sleb authors who send me into a red mist of fury that they ever got published. But it’s a rare thing for me to be moved to tears by a poet, as happened yesterday.
Being a Dead White Male, Henry Longfellow is out of fashion these days but The Cross of Snow, written in memory of his beloved wife who was fatally burned when her gown caught fire, is simply beautiful. I thought I’d pass it along to you. Well there’s nothing going on in my life worthy of report.