winter

Sonnet LXXIV. The Winter’s Night

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‘Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care,’
Forsakes me, while the chill and sullen blast,
As my sad soul recalls its sorrows past,
Seems like a summons bidding me prepare
For the last sleep of death–Murmuring I hear
The hollow wind around the ancient towers,
While night and silence reign; and cold and drear
The darkest gloom of middle winter lowers;
But wherefore fear existence such as mine,
To change for long and undisturb’d repose?
Ah! when this suffering being I resign
And o’er my miseries the tomb shall close,
By her, whose loss in anguish I deplore,
I shall be laid, and feel that loss no more!

 

– Charlotte Smith

 

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The World In Winter

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Today the world…
Landscaped in pen and ink by
hidden hands
Is winter and embossed in white
on white,
The sky cries down its tears
upon the earth.

Black angled trees…
An onyx labyrinth twists down
the wind
Until the ground is rippled
white brocade
bemeath a shifting candleflame
of sun.

And we ourselves…
Embracing on the creek, like
figurines
Skate out across a polished
mirror of ice
Its edges rough and ridged
like hobnailed glass.

 

– Sandra Fowler

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Winter Sunrise

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As the sun wakes up the night
Over the chill fields of white,
Through the solemn, naked tree,
Bereft of its summer green.
Mauve tinged heavens give it sheen.

Lo, a small and brilliant fire
Rising, rising ever higher,
With a promise warming me:

Thou, the goal of my desire,
A new day has come with thee.

 

– Walter Conrad

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Winter

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Crunch of ice, muddied by passing cars
Cats step careful, marking a passage
With four corner paw.
Sparrows scratch a line grown long
Black speckled seed spread by a blue
Vein hand. Trees, naked and cold,
sheared closed.
After moms twitter to button up, please.

Soft white sleep, echoed by the black
Blanket deep, a path wore down
To the bare bottom ground.
By a screeching wind, with red mitten
Children building forts in the snow.

 

– Charlotte Ballard

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Winter

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I stand in speckled light
The shade is uncompromising this time of year
I hear children laughing and playing
Their voices become cheerful echoes in the
outer perimeter of my mind

The eye in my mind displays the approaching cold
and I zip my jacket
Rub my hands
I am like a lizard entombed by cold
A sloth who is moving ever slowly
Into hard fortunes
An English Plane tree dropping a cloak of leaves
onto lichen laced statues as frozen as I

 

– Scott McDonald

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Winter In The Park

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Between their chilly winter sheets
Of gentle mist and quiet rain,
The naked trees retire to sleep
Until Spring comes again.

And comforting those drowsing roots
With muddy socks wrapped right around,
Felt-soft green and grassy boots
Shield them from the frozen ground

While through the fragile, lacy hush
A shiny rush of satin wings
With yellow bills and swelling throats,
Sweet Winter carols sing.

 

– Janet Mary Zylstra

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Winter, Winter

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Winter, winter,
Where are you my dear?
I am here with my pussy cat,
My pussy cat is fat and not near.

Thanks for the clouds and the mist
They are telling the life’s gist.
I myself mislay somewhere
And misjudging you with twist.

I am going with my own swift,
Winter, winter,
I am a turner of light,
Give me strength to fight,
Fight against dark
With full might.

 

– Gajanan Mishra

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Winter

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Icy snowflakes fall to the ground
Softly, silently not a sound.

Snowmen stand grand and tall
Covered in white face and all.

Inside the fire burns bright
Lie next to me, stay all night.

Icicles are melting and the snowmen
See you next year, we’ll be together again.

– Jane Tomlin

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February

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February, bitter February,
Month of hope withheld and promise vain,
Drenching, under fickle smiles, the unwary
Earth with devastating rain.

Ere the limes with ruddy spear-points glimmer,
Ere the greenness leap from bush to bush,
While the starveling grass grows dim and dimmer,
And the folded snowdrops push;

Ah! be gracious, tenderly relenting,
Take not back thy gifts with churlish hand;
Let the breath of thy serene consenting
Falter through the weary land.

Rather thunder on in bleak resistance,
Swift to spoil and rigorous to deny,
Than as thus to veil the sullen distance
With thy bleared and tear-stained sky.

 

– Arthur Christopher Benson

 

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In February

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Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers,
And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers;
A poet’s face asleep in this grey morn.
Now in the midst of the old world forlorn
A mystic child is set in these still hours.
I keep this time, even before the flowers,
Sacred to all the young and the unborn.

To all the miles and miles of unsprung wheat,
And to the Spring waiting beyond the portal,
And to the future of my own young art,
And, among all these things, to you, my sweet,
My friend, to your calm face and the immortal
Child tarrying all your life-time in your heart.

 

– Alice Meynell

 

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