Perpetual Winter Never Known
When the light falls on winter evenings
And the river makes no sound in its passing
Behind the house, is silent but for its cold
Flowing, its reeds frozen stiffer than glass
How can one anticipate the dawn, a sudden
Blazing of sunlight thawing the harshest sky?
How can one not remember summer evenings?
Must not the tired heart sink and must not fear
Bite, like an acid, wrinkles in its stone?
Behind drawn curtains, gazing at the fire,
Think how the earth spins dumb and bound
By iron chains of frost through death-still air;
And how in every street the sealed windows
And orange cubes of firelight, how in houses
Cuckoo-clocks imitate the spring, candles are
Suns. Perpetual winter never known,
Families warm their hands and wait, nor
Ever doubt the season's transience.
poem by David Gascoyne
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Related quotes
Its Winter again
It’s not yet snow but I can smell it
Sounds of rubbing hands and bodies freezing
The sip of hot coffee and closed window panes
Looks like its winter again
Snow and fog and the feeling of cold
Snow and fog and celebrations unfold
The late sunlight brings thousands of smiles
The early evenings and the silent miles and miles
The train whistles and only whistles
The windows are closed with passengers and shivers
The touch of wool and the warmth at home
And outside it’s a snowstorm
Its time to celebrate these cold evenings
Entire world celebrates, as there are many things winter brings
The coziness of bed
The unmatched taste of hot bread
Those pink and white colours everywhere
And the walk through that cold air
Winter is here to make all of us smile
Winter is here to stay for a little while
Winter is here for celebrations
Winter is here for hot chocolate temptations
poem by Amita Singh
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The Fire
I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes,
And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains.
Says he, 'You take it easy! That ain't the way to do!
I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too.
So won't you name the day?'
But I said, 'That I will not.'
And I pushed him away,
Out among the raspberries all on a summer day.
And I says, 'You ask in winter, if your love's so hot,
For it's summer now, and sunny, and my hands is full,' says I,
'With the fair by and by,
And the village dance and all;
And the turkey poults is small,
And so's the ducks and chicks,
And the hay not yet in ricks,
And the flower-show'll be presently and hop-picking's to come,
And the fruiting and the harvest home,
And my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done.
Can't you leave a girl alone?
Your love's too hot for me!
Can't you leave a girl be
Till the evenings do draw in,
Till the leaves be getting thin,
Till the fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea?
That's the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting me!'
* * *
And he took it as I said it, an' not as it was meant.
And he went.
* * *
The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the hops were dry and
brown,
And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down,
And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit,
And he'd never come anigh again, and all my life was sick.
And I was cold alone, with nought to do but sit
With my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick.
For father, he lay dead
With the candles at his head,
And his coffin was that black I could see it through the wall;
And I'd sent them all away,
Though they'd offered for to stay.
I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it all.
Then I heard him. I'd a-known it for his footstep just as plain
If he'd brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen lane.
And I hadn't drawed the curtains, and I see him through the pane;
And I jumped up in my blacks and I threw the door back wide.
Says I, 'You come inside;
For it's cold outside for you,
And it's cold here too;
And I haven't no more pride -
It's too cold for that,' I cried.
* * *
Then I saw in his face
The fear of death, and desire.
And oh, I took and kissed him again and again,
And I clipped him close and all,
In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place,
With the coffin lying black and full the other side the wall;
And 'YOU warm my heart,' I told him, 'if there's any fire in men!'
And he got his two arms round me, and I felt the fire then.
And I warmed my heart at the fire.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Mother Nature Can Be Fickle
Winter’s cold is Mother Nature’s way
Of saying, lie with me now, lay your head on my breast
It’s snow, a blanket under which to lay
Neath a crystal cover, enjoying winter's cold caress
Frost rimed windows … Mother Nature’s art
Icy abstractions painted with frosty finesse
Crystalline concoctions that form only a part
Of Mother Natures wonderful winter largesse
Ice coated limbs of slope shouldered trees
droop drowsily down as if fallen asleep
Unable to sway in winter’s frigid breeze
Appear as white mounds, when the snow drifts deep
The stillness one hears on cold winter nights
Broken by the sudden crack of ice laden boughs
The ethereal essence of undulating northern lights
Headlights in the sky for Nature’s snowplows
All is withdrawn, in awe of Nature’s might
Willingly waiting, deep neath frozen ground
Safely sequestered, from winter’s cruel bite
In warm tunnels and burrows, til spring comes around
Mother Nature invites winter into her domain
Cohabits with coldness, wantonly sleeps with Jack frost
Yet finds cold winter quickly falls to disdain
Invites in the spring…and tells winter to get lost
Mother Nature is fickle…and also the boss!
poem by David Whalen
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When The Clocks Go Back
I dread the day, when the clocks go back;
Of daylight hours, there’s now a real lack.
I wish that, like some animals, we could hibernate,
As winter is a time of year, which I don’t highly rate.
At six o’clock, in the summer, it was still really very light,
But the same time, in winter, feels like the dead of night.
Once it gets dark, it suddenly feels really late,
And, these are the days, which I really hate.
There are a few winter events, on which, I’m keen,
Such as, Christmas, Bonfire Night, and Halloween.
But, for me, winter is just a season, to be got through;
It’s hard to keep myself from feeling down and blue.
My system begins to feel rather sluggish and slow,
As everything around me, loses its once golden glow.
Unlike, in the summer, when you feel at your best,
In winter, it’s all too easy, to lose some of your zest.
On dark evenings, it is now more dangerous to roam,
And, if I do, then it means getting a taxi back home.
On long summer evenings, people love to sit outside,
But, in winter, in their homes, they’d much rather hide.
With less daylight hours, there’s an increase in crime;
Unfortunately, for us, it’s a sign of our modern times.
For people, who now go to and from work, in the dark,
It’s no longer safe, to take a short cut through the park.
One of my favourite times of year, is the onset of spring;
A time when my sleepy soul, once more, begins to sing.
Spring is a season, which I really look forward to;
The onslaught of winter, it helps me to pull through.
Winter weather is very often dull and grey,
With persistent, heavy rain, on many a day.
When the weather warms up, I feel on a high:
Glad that the winter has, at last, passed on by.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Autumn Thoughts
Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers,
And gone the Summer's pomp and show,
And Autumn, in his leafless bowers,
Is waiting for the Winter's snow.
I said to Earth, so cold and gray,
'An emblem of myself thou art.'
'Not so,' the Earth did seem to say,
'For Spring shall warm my frozen heart.'
I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams
Of warmer sun and softer rain,
And wait to hear the sound of streams
And songs of merry birds again.
But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone,
For whom the flowers no longer blow,
Who standest blighted and forlorn,
Like Autumn waiting for the snow;
No hope is thine of sunnier hours,
Thy Winter shall no more depart;
No Spring revive thy wasted flowers,
Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Seasons
Spring, a symbol of rebirth
Starting another season on earth
New buds open to the sun
Now the spring has begun.
Summer once again is here
Sky is wonderful blue and clear
Growths of colour on display
That's a lovely summers day.
Autumn leaves go blowing by
Lifting high up to the sky
Soon they scatter without sound
Gently cascading to the ground.
Winter comes around with branches bare
A spiders web in the suns pale glare
Frost so cold that it burns
Awaiting 'till the spring returns.
Every season a different thing
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring
Cut the grass, shovel the snow
Or bake in the sun 'till you glow.
© Hazel 2010
poem by Hazel Connelly
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The Growing Season
The seasons work together
To make the world possible
Summer, the sun season
Fall, the leaf season
Winter, the snow season
And spring, the time of beauty
Summer, the yellow season
Fall, the orange season
Winter, the white season
And spring, the time of the rainbow
Summer, the blank season
Fall, the shadow season
Winter, the dying season
And spring, the growing season
The growing season
To Each a Season
Summer kisses Winter's Hands
thereby warming them
as she takes her hair
and wraps him
in the midst of the blowing gale;
her arms reach out
to his icy branches
giving a spark to each sleeping bud
awaking each from its frozen winter encasement.
But Winter's Heart
is cold indeed
whispering to her in her ministrations
'I am Winter and Winter is my fate;
from my icy cradle
Spring is born
and I must not miss her birth.'
Summer was angry.
'Am I not more fair than she?
Have I not given you solace
in your icy retreat?
Have I not offered you much more than she?
If I withdraw my succorings
where would you be? '
'I would' Winter said
'Winter be.'
With that Summer took her Golden Hair
threw it back upon her beautiful shoulders
asking herself 'Where is the gratitude? '
Winter reached with his thin cold fingers
uttering,
'Summer is too warm for me because without
my wild blizzard face I lose my Winter Grace and Winter's dignity-
becoming only melting ice;
discarded slush
snow-flake crushed
and I would wander
my melting realm
and seep into muddy ground,
gone.'
'I understand' Summer said
'Spring, when you put it that way
seems a better bride for you since
she kisses your icy buds
slowly bringing them to blossoming
and I would perhaps apply too much heat
too soon;
they would be born flower wilted
'I understand, ' she said
flying away
'yet I am still sad.'
Below
Winter held his arms high
to welcome
the smell of
Springs breezes
not knowing
Summer in coming to him
had sacrificed her own season
and lay dead
beneath Winter's snow
unknown to him;
because indeed her love was so great
she had given up
her own Summer season.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Late Winter
This Winter came so late,
It hasn't even come,
The warmth still remains,
From late Autumn,
At thirteen it stays,
No frost, wind or coldness,
No shrill in the voices of men,
As they stare into the oncoming snow,
The breeze and quality ice,
Nothing... nothing at all...
It doesn't feel like Winter,
It feels like Late Winter,
That the control panel,
For Winter has been overridden,
Taken over, not knowing when,
How, or even why to start,
Journal burnt in Autumn,
Crisp, warm weather,
Nothing remains,
No snow walks, evenings by the fire,
Staying away from the cold,
So warm...
Please, Late Winter,
Arrive, we're waiting,
So real Winter can begin,
At full speed, steaming ahead,
Faster than the world can take it,
Late Winter... arrive...
poem by Viraj Bhanshaly
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Winter's Whitest Spurts
Although John Clare declared that he
saw spring in winter’s whitest spurts,
for many this is hard to see
when, freezing, all our body hurts,
and winter’s direst discontent
makes cold blasts pierce the frozen soul.
We wonder where the summer went
when icy winds exact their toll,
and whistling toll for all of us
on nights we wish would be more silent.
each blast a blaring blunderbuss
that’s aimed to make us all an island,
disconnected from the spring
and summer, fall, that we remember
when we for warmth our cold arms fling
around each other in December.
Inspired by John Clare’s “The Winter’s Spring”:
THE winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please-no bees to hum-
The coming spring's already come.
I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
'Tis but the winter garb of spring.
I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.
I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.
It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring-the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature's white spurts of the spring.
12/24/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Nature's Season's
Season's come and season's go,
There are four in each year,
Of our time keeping.
Spring,
Summer,
Autumn,
Winter,
In other parts of the world,
Their season's are called something else,
Each Season is,
Of different type,
Yet,
Two and Two,
To begin and become,
Spring shows the begining,
Of growth and new season,
So for plants,
Vegetation,
Spring Chickens,
Spring Lambs,
The Calflings,
The Fouls,
All come in the Spring,
And flourish in the Summer,
Summer shows bloom,
From the plants to the Fouls,
And all are seen in full bloom,
Even the birds and the bees,
Sing the songs,
Of spring and summer,
With the Sun's rays,
That shows nature,
In full bloom,
By the time,
All is in full bloom,
And what shows and blooms,
Blossoms all summer,
And just when we are relaxed,
And see no clouds in the sky,
The seson changes,
Beginning with,
The fall,
Autumn's,
Season,
Commences to begin,
Where,
All in bloom,
Falls away and decays,
While the rest,
Fly away,
And,
Migrate,
Or,
Hibernate,
And just when,
We have seen it all disappear,
The frost and snow,
Covers all over,
And chills the air,
Where the chilling effect,
Kills off all decay,
And the blue ice time period,
Takes over for a time,
Chilling,
Freeezing,
Keeping everything beneath the earth,
As winter sets itself right in,
And far beneath the froasted earth,
Is all in nature,
Rekindling itself,
To regrowth itself,
And then spring growth,
Again,
Next season,
That starts the circle of life,
2 x 2 = 4,
The four seasons,
Of,
Our circle of life,
Spring,
Summer,
Autumn,
Winter,
The four seasons,
Of ours,
That is 2 x 2,
Spring and Summer,
Then,
Autumn and Winter,
That makes it known,
As 4 seasons,
To us all.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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The Game of Baseball
It begins, of course, in the Spring.
The evenings grow lighter
The air sweeter
and all the world is filled
With sweet optimism.
It continues through
the long hot summer
Humid evenings
and long hot afternoons.
It is a marathon
not a sprint.
Only one team each year
wins its last game
It leaves us in the Fall
as Winter’s first foul
Imprecations
chill us to the marrow.
Days darken
and the sun seems absent.
It is both a faith and
a fixation.
Even in winter’s depths
It speaks to us of spring
and the hope
of redemption.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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In Winter's Arms
Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane.
Subdued by touch of winter's frigid hand,
I pray for spring to find me once again.
O'wind, you whistle to the winter's tune.
Your melody is heard 'pon day and night,
but one day spring will come to rescue me,
and wisk away your song of winter's blight.
O'tree, you're frozen in the winter's dream.
Your leaves have left you 'neath a moon of white,
but when my prayers are answered 'pon spring's dawn,
you'll thaw beneath its sun with warm delight.
O'field, your harvest has been reaped and spent ~
and winter blankets you 'neath snowy mounds.
Yet one day soon in springtime's rising mist
you'll feel the greening of your earth rebound.
Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane ~
but deep within I somehow always know,
that spring will come and find me once again.
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Winter night and the three little men
Winter Night and The Three Little Men.
The Fire burns bright,
While the woods turn to night.
The cold creeps in with sudden quickness
and trees set in sudden ice.
It is, suffice to say, that this is a cold Winter night.
The fire that night kept warm the three little Men
and cast a light that stayed the predators of that cold winter night.
The cold crept and the Wolves howled but all tried in vain
for the fire kept the three little men safe,
but men are lazy and some call them crazy.
All the same because that winter night was to
be the last for the little three men.
The three little men eyes drooped and finely closed
but the poor men forgot to tend the fire.
The fire went out with a flicker then a splutter
and Winter night crept in;
There was one witness that cold Winter night, the Moon.
Try as she could her brightness could not save the poor
little three Men, that cold Winter night.
Josiah, Lozier
poem by Josiah Lozier
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Spirit Of Fire In The Water
Light, celebrated in the flame
The heat burning through the shine
Warm kiss of the waving touch
Comfy, lean on the surfaces
Embodied as the heat, spirit of fire
Enliven small body with desires
Changed when it feed with anger
Growing bigger, burning hearts of other
Cursed touches left to be ashes, gray color
Minutes in reigning power
Now the fire goes down
Gone, when the sky cries
Dropping the purest water
Silent the fire, suppressed the anger
Somehow when extinction of warm
Welcoming the rise of arrogant
Water empowered with freezing touch
Frozen as snow, hot turn cold
When power flaming ego in the fire,
As also arrogant freezing the water
Heat left, diffused with miracles
Till there's nothing for each other
When tolerate not in heart of lovers
Spirit of fire, burning in the sun
Kissed the land sealed with heat warm
Melt the icy heart, sent by celebrated sunlight
The snow white in the winter alive again
Liquid as freedom, ice captured the warm
Back to flow through the river it goes
A love shared between fire and water
Two bodies of untouchable
Unites into one shared kiss
Preserve the heat into modesty
Warming when it's too cold
Cooling when it's too hot
Tolerate of two bodies
water and fire in a bond of heat
Spirit of fire swim in the heart of water
Promised harmony, keep warm in the winter
Bringing cold refreshing in this summer
Ego of each in such altered flow spirit tendency
Create a world of respect and tolerate
When two show powers holding together
Seal cold to the fire, and flame fire to the ice
Burning love in frozen hearts
Living in warm ice forever after
As spirit of fire In the water
poem by Unwritten Soul
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Isn't She Lovely
Isn't she lovely? like a spring morning
Lilacs of purple and white grow in my heart
Oh! too think she is mine
What a wonderful thought!
When the wind howls and the frost comes
When snow falls on the summer fruit
She remains with comfort like a winter fire
Light a fire in the cold of winter, love is warm
Grey days, storms, rain that seems to never quit
A true companion is an eternal garden
Roses grow in smiles of joy
She wears a blue dress
Country smiles, river dreams, music of the sea
I am blessed with the songs of the forest
Isn't she lovely? when the leaves fall
Isn't she lovely? when snow is in her honey hair
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Keep me warm
A winter day will sometimes bring me the
flu, but I always wait on the blazing sun that
rises every now and then in winter season,
warm sunshine, warm you are, every morning
you bring your life, your lucent light warm up my
fingers, my face my body, sometimes my nose I
can't feel, but you indulge my face and warm my
cold days, your risen in winter season is like
seen you giving birth to life, winter, winter wont
give me the blues, nor make my days gloomy,
there will always be you cheerful and bright,
my mornings you bring the gift of sunlit, a glint
of sunshine can make me feel blessed,
unalterable you are, sovereign, enigmatic
and brilliant to all beings.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Baseball (revised)
It begins, of course, in the Spring.
The evenings grow lighter
The air sweeter
and all the world is filled
With sweet optimism.
It continues through
the long hot summer
Humid evenings
and long hot afternoons.
It is a marathon
not a sprint.
Only one team each year
wins the ultimate game
It leaves us in the Fall
as Winter’s first foul
Imprecations
chill us to the marrow.
Days darken
and the sun seems absent.
It is both a faith and
a fixation.
Even in winter’s depths
It speaks to us of spring
and the hope
of redemption.
Unless you happen to root for the Mets...
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Life Is Lovely All the Year
When the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day -
Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green - Fal lal la!
Summer's rose - Fal lal la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn's gold - Fal lal la!
Winter's grey - Fal lal la!
Winter still is far away -
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope - Fal lal la!
Summer's joy - Fal lal la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil - Fal lal la!
Winter, rest - Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best -
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too -
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Different Winds
Autumn gusts
coldish
death red and orange
prophesy of a massacre of green and hopefullness
(the poem dips)
winter wind
bitinig
cold
every thing is waiting
like rivers of frozen paper slicing through the air
(the poem falls dead)
spring breeze
round
warmish
enveloping my heart
yellowish green breezes blow through class room windows
begging me to fly
(the poem swells and wishes to grow)
summer breezes
i dont remember.
(the swelling poem hesitates)
but soon i will alight upon a breeze of summer
and swim through the air and sea
so i will never forget the taste
of summer air
(the poem waits contentedly for a forgotten wind to sweep it away)