Spark in a Dying Fire

Reflections on “Frost at Midnight”


If only we could be free, as ash floating from the embers.
No restraints, no responsibilities; no schedules or accountability.

The infant sleeps soundly, at peace in such a way no man could ever be.
And according to the poet’s recollections of childhood, no child could ever be.

The babe’s peace hinges on fulfilled needs. There is no real freedom there.
What then, is freedom’s identifying mark?

Beyond the monotony of routine and the prison of dim surroundings.
Even nature, a healing teacher, becomes dull as a constant companion.

Where is the spark?
The small speck of rightness surrounded by all that is cheap and temporary?


I am appalled and humbled frequently at the recognition of my own ignorance, spending years confident that my understanding of a particular aspect of the world is sound. And then, in a single discussion with a friend or in a few sentences from a book I realize what had always seemed accurate no longer works. How can this be? How can I know less after years of life and study? Must I resign myself to the apparent fact that I perceive and intuit details, yet am simply unable to correctly interpret or synthesize them?

Coleridge speaks to his sleeping child, and to me. Though his stanza tends toward a pantheistic view of God, the words are memorable:

“He shall mould thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.”


I may not have all the answers or even the right questions. It does not matter how often I encounter thoughts or ideas clearer than my own. But what is imperative is the desire to wonder, to explore, and reason.

“He shall mould [my] spirit.”
“And by giving make it ask.”

This is a gifted mark of freedom.

And from a master . . .

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

Of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall

Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

from “Frost at Midnight”

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

You can read the entire poem here: The Poetry Foundation