Welcome back to the Daily Poem here on the Close Reeds Podcast Network. I'm David Kern.

Today's poem is by Emily Dickinson, who lived from 1830 to 1886. She was, of course, a Massachusetts

poet, and one of the most famous and well-remembered poets of American letters. But before I read this

Dickinson poem, I want to remind you about our poetry memorization contest for our younger listeners.

Don't forget that you or your student, if you are an adult, can memorize at least eight

lines of J.R.R. Tolkien's poetry, recite it, and then take a video of a

recitation of those lines and post it on social media, Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter with

the hashtag Daily Poem. And we will choose winners for each of the different age groups.

And we'll have some surprises that we will be giving to the winners and we'll even play

the winning recitations here on the

podcast. Those are due by Valentine's Day by February 14th. And like I said, when we announced it,

that's just a random day. There's no real reason that we chose that day, except that it's someone

that people will remember. So don't forget about that. The hashtag again is Daily Palm.

And again, it's at least eight lines of J.R.R. Tolkien's poetry.

Today's poem is called There's a Certain Slant of Light, and it is a great poem for winter.

I know many of you across the United States are snowed in, and February is the coldest month of the year for many of you. So this poem is for those of you who are snowed in and February is the coldest month of the year for many of you. So this poem is for

those of you who are snowed in and freezing. I don't think it'll help. Here's how it goes.

There's a certain slant of light on winter afternoons that oppresses, like the heft of cathedral tunes. Heavenly hurt it gives us. We can find no

scar, but internal difference where the meanings are. None may teach it anything, tis the seal,

despair, an imperial affliction sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens. Shadows hold their breath. When it goes, it is like the

distance on the look of death. Donald Thackeray once said that this is one of those poems which are experienced but never

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