Icicles

I watched these grow almost overnight, from a mere dribble to a few inches length, all from the comfort of the sunroom. Shortly after this was taken the snow slid from the roof and they all disappeared.

I was reminded of the Shakespeare poem from “Love’s Labour ’s Lost,” Act V. Sc. 2.: 
When icicles hang by the wall,  

  And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,  
And Tom bears logs into the hall,  
  And milk comes frozen home in pail,  
When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,        
Then nightly sings the staring owl,  
            To-whoo;  
To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,  
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.  
  
When all aloud the wind doth blow,         10 
  And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,  
And birds sit brooding in the snow,  
  And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,  
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,  
Then nightly sings the staring owl,          
            To-whoo;  
To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,  
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.  


For Greasy Joan substitute Flumgummery making a large granary loaf and a dozen rolls to save us from tramping through 10 inches (25cms) of snow to the nearest shop.