Poet in Winter

(analyze this)

A small room with one table and one chair,
This man who writes, then cancels what he writes
Tears up the sheets, runs fingers through his hair;
His violent longing makes a fiercer chill
Than the sensed tilting of his hemisphere
Toward the frozen solstice, and he fights
A strange, oncoming ice-age of the will.

For him love does not burn, but chains him so:
The unspoken words lie heavy on his tongue,
Thoughts are like granite hurled into soft snow;
He holds a winter landscape in his mind;
All tracks, familiar roads are covered now
By a blank sameness; he is caught and wrung
In the nailed gauntlet of a polar wind.

And yet that wind blows oly for the man
Thus damned to strive; one opening the door
Would see him there, and casually would scan
his bent head and the slowly scribbled page
That's hidden at the sound; the draught would fan
Fragments of verse to the littered floor
As a false snowstorm falls upon the stage.

-Anonymous (rather, I'm too lazy to even find out who wrote this)