Midwinter Melancholia

A Reflection on English Aesthetics

Once upon a time, as a boy, I found myself crossing a field in mid December. The sun had drawn down to the softest of weak glimmers underneath the dark clouds and the snow was falling, thick, soft and heavy as I trudged through the fresh drift. Silhouetted against the sky were tall and thin poplars in a row; some broader oak spreading over a line of hed…