Friday, December 11, 2009

Winter Poetry

Nature reminds us we're barreling toward the darkest day.



The Snow-Storm
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.



To Winter
by William Blake

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.'
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheath?d
In ribb?d steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,
For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st
With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster
Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.



Winter Song
by Wilfred Owen

The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.

From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.



Woods in Winter
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.



Winter Kills
by Cat Dubie

Snow fell sneakily throughout the night,
more than two feet in this coastal paradise where rain is the norm.
The cedars bent under the weight, broke,
late-blooming pansies, bright red and yellow, lie shriveled in pots.

I heard the eagle scream
and so did the little ones at the feeder.
Nuthatches, chickadees, the small suet-loving woodpecker
all flurried to the leafless lilac tree.

A young rabbit, dark against the snow
hesitates, then leaps.

The eagle screams.


--Cat

3 comments:

Jefferson said...

Loved your selection of winter poems. Here's one of mine.


The Winter Horses

No mist lies on the distant rim of hills
and low mountains. In the frozen clear air
only a straight string of smoke is rising.
Behind the barn steam dissipates slowly
in thin wisps from the fresh removed manure.
Two horses stand huddled in private heat
that lies almost heavy as a blanket
and solid along the backs and haunches.
Breath comes in soft little white clouds puffing
from dark nostrils. Head to rump they stand calm
in the cold with no hint of wind tugging
at their manes and tails, eyes almost closed tight
against the frost. Heads down, they do not doze.
They wait patiently for grain and water
and fresh straw layered on the floor. Small dreams
of summer fields shiver under their hides
with no sense of longing and no regret.
The door opens. They step into warm stalls.

Jeff Seffinga

Essay said...

Thanks for sharing, your blog is worth reading, nice post. Keep it up.

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