Great Poems Condensed   Saint Agnes Eve—ah, bitter chill it was. Hares, owls and shaggy sheepies were a-cold Spite of fur, feathers, wool. This was because The wind was bitter in the frozen fold,   Where squatters on their splendid horses doled Out porridge to the swagmen, ghastly ’twas, The place where wretched serfs were bought and sold, The state Sokhov, where the heroic Boz,   A man both sage and eminently bold, Had fought before the walls of Badajoz, Which is in sunny Spain, if truth be told. Most horrible it proved indeed, dear coz.   The wind was…