The day is ending,

The night is descending;

The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

That’s the beginning of a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, called Afternoon in February.  He ends his poem comparing the bleak, midwinter day to a funeral:

Shadows are trailing,

My heart is bewailing

And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.

If you’re feeling a bit gloomy these days, bored with the February blahs, you’re not alone.  For a number of people, the shortest month of the year often feels like the longest.

But Anne Bronte wrote a poem about February, too, and she called it In Memory of a Happy Day in February.  What made it happy?  Well, it wasn’t the “smile of early spring,” or “some feeling of delight,” or even “a hope of bright prosperity,” she says—

“It was a glimpse of truth divine,” a revelation “direct from heaven” of God’s wisdom and power and glory and providence.  “I knew that my Redeemer lived,” she writes, “I did not fear to die, Full sure that I should rise again to immortality.”

One month, two poets, and the difference between death and life—I wonder, when it comes to February, are you a Longfellow or a Bronte?

Have a wonderful day.