It started out as an assignment in culmination of my study of the Romantic Period of British literature—to write a poem in the style of Keats, Blake, Wordsworth, the like.
It started out as a half-baked reflection of nature—according to Romanticism—mere hours before the deadline. It progressed into bitter resentment of the equally bitter storm that haunted me on the way to religion class the previous week. And, after small group discussion, it was forcibly volunteered for the class-wide recitation—to be shared after two deep, meticulously crafted poems about life-giving robins and Nephi, no less.
I started with a disclaimer: "It's called 'Walking Amidst Snowflakes.' This is silly, and not as profound as the others." Then I cleared my throat:
"The snowflakes waltz in jubilee,
as I start waxing weary.
They glitz and glitter, stingingly;
in woe my eyes grow bleary.
I blink away the blinding flakes,
and trudge on ever forward.
Inside I curse the worsening storm,
and the class I'm walking toward.
Halfway there a wind picks up,
and oh! the chill is biting.
It mocks my pinking cheeks, exposed;
As if 'tis me the snow is spiting.
My hands are shaking violently;
I forgot my blessed gloves.
I reminisce about the time
when snow I used to love."
The class laughed twice during the recitation, and then optioned my prose for discussion. Apparently, my intentions were very Keats-ian. My personification and stylistic word choice very reminiscent of nature poetry and its fascination with the sublime, and of the overall themes of innocence versus experience demonstrated by Blake, and Wordsworth's trademark nostalgia. Really, I intended nothing of the sort besides receiving completion points, and was silently humored.