winter poems(23 Posts)
can anyone come up with anyone winter poems for me? ds has to collect some for school, so far i have the robert frost one " whose woods these are.." and " tam snow" by charles causley.
any others greatfully anticipated!!
Cold winter's in the wood,
I saw him pass
Crinkling up fallen leaves
Along the grass.
Bleak winter's in the wood,
The birds have flown
Leaving the naked trees
King Winter's in the wood,
I saw him go
Crowned with a coronet
of crystal snow.
There's snow on the fields,
And cold in the cottage,
While I sit in the chimney nook
Supping hot pottage.
My clothes are soft and warm,
Fold upon fold,
But I'm so sorry for the poor,
Out in the cold.
In the bleak mid winter
FRosty wind made moan
Earth was hard as iron
water like a stone
snow had fallen snow on snow, snow on snow
in the bleak mid winter, long ago
How old is your DS? Have a book here 'A Snowflake Fell' Poems about Winter but some are for older children.
This one by Wallace Stevens, major American poet from first half of 20th century, is one of my favorites:
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
And another one, a famous Robert Frost poem:
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Oh, dear, you've got me started alexsmum. Here's a Brit for you now, Edward Thomas:
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved,
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.
Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry.
Shaken out long and clear upon the hill
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.
And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered too, by the bird's voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
(Sorry, just noticed you already had the Robert Frost one.)
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's Wind
by John Keats
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars
To thee the spring will be harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phbus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.
Sorry to be a bore, but one more:
by Philip Larkin
Mantled in grey, the dusk steals slowly in,
Crossing the dead, dull fields with footsteps cold.
The rain drips drearily; night's fingers spin
A web of drifting mist o'er wood and wold,
As quiet as death. The sky is silent too,
Hard as granite and as fixed as fate.
The pale pond stands; ringed round with rushes few
And draped with leaning trees, it seems to wait
But for the coming of the winter night
Of deep December; blowing o'er the graves
Of faded summers, swift as the wind in flight
Ripples its silent face with lapping waves.
The rain falls still: bowing, the woods bemoan;
Dark night creeps in, and leaves the world alone.
Oh, dear, I'm obsessed now. Here's a poem in a great form called the sestina by another American.
by Anthony Hecht:
Here in this bleak city of Rochester,
Where there are twenty-seven words for "snow,"
Not all of them polite, the wayward mind
Basks in some Yucatan of its own making,
Some coppery, sleek lagoon, or cinnamon island
Alive with lemon tints and burnished natives,
And O that we were there. But here the natives
Of this grey, sunless city of Rochester
Have sown whole mines of salt about their land
(Bare ruined Carthage that it is) while snow
Comes down as if The Flood were in the making.
Yet on that ocean Marvell called the mind
An ark sets forth which is itself the mind,
Bound for some pungent green, some shore whose natives
Blend coriander, cayenne, mint in making
Roasts that would gladden the Earl of Rochester
With sinfulness, and melt a polar snow.
It might be well to remember that an island
Was blessed heaven once, more than an island,
The grand, utopian dream of a noble mind.
In that kind climate the mere thought of snow
Was but a wedding cake; the youthful natives,
Unable to conceive of Rochester,
Made love, and were acrobatic in the making.
Dream as we may, there is far more to making
Do than some wistful reverie of an island,
Especially now when hope lies with the Rochester
Gas and Electric Co., which doesn't mind
Such profitable weather, while the natives
Sink, like Pompeians, under a world of snow.
The one thing indisputable here is snow,
The single verity of heaven's making,
Deeply indifferent to the dreams of the natives,
And the torn hoarding-posters of some island.
Under our igloo skies the frozen mind
Holds to one truth: it is grey, and called Rochester.
No island fantasy survives Rochester,
Where to the natives destiny is snow
That is neither to our mind nor of our making
I'll stop for now, but I could go on and on and on and on. . .let me know if you need more.
Late lies the wintry sun abed,
A frosty, fiery sleepyhead;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
Ablood red orange sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer sled explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house and hill and lake
Are frosted like a wedding cake.
Wintertime. Robert Louis Stevenson.
wow, thanks so much for all these. so beautiful.
jangly, i love the christina rossetti one..expat kat, thank you so much !
You're welcome! Typing those up was a labour of love!
Expatkat... Had never seen a sestina in English. Very interesting. Thanks. I enjoyed reading this thread.
OMG Ellbell, there are loads. It's proven a v. popular form in English, esp. in the 20th c. Glad you enjoyed that one, anyway.
Glad these were helpful, alexsmum.
Yeah, just my own ignorance !
I deal quite a bit with the original versions in medieval Provencal and Italian... (Interestingly the one you quoted had an Italian title...).
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