A Disciple Of Coleridge Experiences The Sublime, C.1825 Poem by Daniel Brick

By mid morning, as he bent his body
against the sleet, and he neared his goal,
the half day collapsed into winter -
temperatures dropping, ice as slippery
as polished marble, the sun a pale smudge
of blue, and himself both weary and excited.
Clouds were his walking companions, patches
of white swirling over the ground, and slowly
circulated in the wind. He had left the arguments,
resentments, hurt feelings back at the lodge,
in a dark closet no one would disturb.
Friendship was electric at close quarters,
even the games they played at night were tense and
driven, as if winning was important. It wasn't.
What mattered was learning to breathe in the thin
heights they occupied, what mattered was surviving
with less effort of the mind, what mattered
was giving the heart enough space to expand.
He was resolved. He would walk in this cold air
until his heart was frozen, and his mind felt
no grief, and he could see her fair face
without a stab of pain. The ground was slippery,
the world was slippery, his emotions were slippery.
He grabbed a tree branch to steady himself,
he took several deep breaths, and began to compose
a sonnet on an ideal beauty he would someday meet.