GR translation: will it still go on emanating its hooded cold

[Mike Jing]

P240.4-25   At “The White Visitation,” days along the chalk piece of
seacoast now are fine and clear. The office girls are bundling into fewer
sweaters, and breasts peaking through into visibility again. March has come
in like a lamb. Lloyd George is dying. Stray visitors are observed now
along the still-forbidden beach, sitting among obsolescent networks of
steel rod and cable, trousers rolled to the knee or hair unsnooded, chilly
gray toes stirring the shingle. Just offshore, underwater, run miles of
secret piping, oil ready at a valve-twist to be released and roast German
invaders who belong back in dreams already old . . . fuel waiting
hypergolic ignition that will not come unless now as some
junior-bureaucratic rag or May uprising of the spirit, to Bavarian
tunesmith Carl Orff’s lively
                 O, O, O,
                 To-tus flore-o!
                 lam amore virginali
                 Totus ardeo . . .
all this fortress coast alight, Portsmouth to Dungeness, blazing for the
love of spring. Plots to this effect hatch daily among the livelier heads
at “The White Visitation”—the winter of dogs, of black snowfalls of
issueless words, is ending. Soon it will be behind us. But once there,
behind us—will it still go on emanating its hooded cold, however the fires
burn at sea?

Why is the cold "hooded"?
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