David Mitchell Poems

The snow so white, descending,
Falls soft upon the ground,
A gentle silence lending
Which fills the air around.
...

They say that Love is like a flow'r
Whose beauty blooms in June:
They have not known Love's awful pow'r
Whose fancy fades so soon.
...

Dorothea would not bow
To idols, and she would not wed,
And now they tortured her, and now
Decided that she should be dead.
...

Season of cold and languid joylessness,
With never-rising, ever-setting sun;
I cannot praise thee, and I cannot bless
The time from now till February is done;
...

The Christ was born in Bethlehem
Beneath a starlit sky;
The Christ was born in Bethlehem;
The world pass'd thoughtless by.
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Strange consolation! Anguish and despair
Are in Augustine's sorrow-laden face
As in some distant solitary place
He bends his head, and rushing tears of care
...

Why does my soul so strongly cling
To the world that gave it birth?
Will not that Death to whom I sing
Release me from this earth?
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On this green hillside do I gaze
At clouds still, sweet, and soft,
And many a tree that gently sways
And birds that soar aloft!
...

I have an insatiable urge to write
That possesses me throughout both the day and the night
I'm told by someone who was reading a copy of 'New Scientist' magazine the other week and I don't think is in the Mafia
That it's a mild psychiatric disorder called Hypergraphia
...

I put my glasses on; behold!
A headache comes to me:
I take my glasses off, and then
I find I cannot see.
...