Brueghel's Winter
Jagg'd mountain peaks and skies ice-green
Wall in the wild, cold scene below.
Churches, farms, bare copse, the sea
In freezing quiet of winter show;
Where ink-black shapes on fields in flood
Curling, skating, and sliding go.
To left, a gabled tavern; a blaze;
Peasants; a watching child; and lo,
Muffled, mute--beneath naked trees
In sharp perspective set a-row--
Trudge huntsmen, sinister spears aslant,
Dogs snuffling behind them in the snow;
And arrowlike, lean, athwart the air
Swoops into space a crow.
But flame, nor ice, nor piercing rock,
Nor silence, as of a frozen sea,
Nor that slant inward infinite line
Of signboard, bird, and hill, and tree,
Give more than subtle hint of him
Who squandered here life's mystery.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Related quotes
A Winter of Discontent
I remember a winter a few decades ago.
Where our dear England was covered in snow.
It started on Boxing Day with a blizzard from hell
then in the course of a week the snow just fell.
This once green paradise was now a shroud of white
and everyone was suffering from chillblains and frostbite.
Outdoor life was like an indoor fridge
where everything had frozen like a mountain ridge.
Abandon lorries on the side of the road
men were freezing even their load.
Villages cut off all over the land
so in came the troops to lend a hand.
This was the winter of discontent that lasted from
Christmas, and way past Lent.
As one lot of snow cleared, it would return again
to bring freezing cold tempretures and a lot of pain.
Wind would blow both night and day, and still the snow
never went away.Drifts of snow standing six foot high
just being topped up with snow from a winter sky.
So what of this winter of ice and snow
one that happened a few decades ago.
I remember it as one that was cold and wild
because in the summer God presented me
with my first born child.
In this year, where snow fell in December
it was the coldest winter I will ever remember.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Winter Has Come
Definitely winter has come.
The evergreen shrub's white flowers have disappeared.
The ginko trees have turned into brooms.
Like a sharp sharp piercing, winter has come.
Everyone dislikes winter.
Deserted by grasses and trees, run away from by insects, winter has come.
Winter,
come to me, come to me.
I have winter's strength, winter is my victim.
Permeate through, penetrate into!
Make fires break out! Bury with snow I
Like a sharp knife, winter has come.
poem by KotaroTakamura
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The Aerodrome
So now the aerodrome goes up
Upon my father's fields,
And gone is all the golden crop
And all the pleasant yields.
They tear the trees up, branch and root,
They kill the hedges green,
As though some force, malign and brute,
Ravaged the peace serene.
There where he used to sit and gaze
With blue and quiet eyes,
Watching his comely cattle graze,
The walls begin to rise.
What place for robin or for wren,
For thrush and blackbird's call?
Now there shall be but flying men
Nor any bird at all.
'Twas well he did not stay to know,
Defaced and all defiled
The quiet fields of long ago,
Dear to him as a child.
But when the tale was told to me
I felt such piercing pain,
They tore my heart up with the tree
That will not leaf again.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Aerodrome
So now the aerodrome goes up
Upon my father's fields,
And gone is all the golden crop
And all the pleasant yields.
They tear the trees up, branch and root,
They kill the hedges green,
As though some force, malign and brute,
Ravaged the peace serene.
There where he used to sit and gaze
With blue and quiet eyes,
Watching his comely cattle graze,
The walls begin to rise.
What place for robin or for wren,
For thrush and blackbird's call?
Now there shall be but flying men
Nor any bird at all.
'Twas well he did not stay to know,
Defaced and all defiled
The quiet fields of long ago,
Dear to him as a child.
But when the tale was told to me
I felt such piercing pain,
They tore my heart up with the tree
That will not leaf again.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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In January In Duhallow
The cold winds of January from the north east does blow
And the weather is cold quite cold enough for to snow
And the hungry birds silent on the naked hedgerow
In the flat and rushy fields where the Blackwater flow.
January in Duhallow from here far away
In the chill of the morning the frost bound fields gray
In the farmyard sheds cattle bellow for silage or hay
Where the sun seldom shines on a January day.
The distinctive harsh caws of the silver backed crow
In the Season where grass does refuse for to grow
And few cars on the roadway that leads to the town
Near where the river flows bank high in flood waters of brown.
In January in Duhallow the old fields looking bare
With the harsh chill of Winter in the cold Morning air
And at least eight long weeks till the first breath of Spring
When Nature will bloom and her wild birds will sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Indian minor
It landed on the wall
that divided the front yard
from the back
where my yellow BMW
was sheltered under a roof
It was dark brown with a yellow bill
and sharp small black intelligent eyes
watching everything
much like a crow or raven.
Every now and then
it darted down
to land next to the bowl
with the dog’s pellets
pecking them up
as another bird would seed.
The dog would eat every now and then
and sometimes guard its bowl
lying there defying that bird,
but when ever it would go
that bird would
have its feast,
till one day
that I took that bowl away
into the dogs pen
and then that bird
sat screaming on that wall
as if I had stolen
his dearest possessions
from him
as if there was nothing else to steal.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Transition
A little while to walk with thee, dear child;
To lean on thee my weak and weary head;
Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild,
The leafless trees are black, the leaves long dead.
A little while to hold thee and to stand,
By harvest-fields of bending golden corn;
Then the predestined silence, and thine hand,
Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn.
A little while to love thee, scarcely time
To love thee well enough; then time to part,
To fare through wintry fields alone and climb
The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art.
Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire,
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Snow
The voice of the tree gets frozen
and the snow falls on the heart of the winter
it has been broken
as always
but the craziness of lover and poet goes on
if the surreal dreams
touches the corridor
of my reality
I promise
I will not ask much from winter
an eternal coldness may be
it is naked
as always
no warmth
no warmth
Dear,
snow is falling everywhere
on the streets
on the trees, rooftops
and on the mirror
an ivory white
something....
and I'm breathing in
the dust of the snow
like I breathe the poetry of Mayakovosky
It pains
the long night
a broken naked winter
no! you can't be so heartless
neither I can...
Dear,
I have been like a pale winter
where snow is covering
my city of Veronese
but my frozen hand is trying to write
your name on it...!
poem by Jyotishman Debnath
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The Cold Winds Of January
Last night in my dreams i did hear the winds roar
Above the old high fields of far Claramore
A cold Winter moon crept behind clouds to hide
And on the bleak hillside the hungry fox cried
And a bird so distinctive even in his wild cry
The screech of the barn owl echoed in the sky
A Winter's night in January by old Clara hill
The howling of the wind drowned out the babble of the rill
That towards the big river downland ever does flow
Through many a field and by many a hedgerow
Old jack frost of January is in the cold air
And the hedgerows and deciduous trees of their foliage are bare
And the cold winds of January in the dead of night roar
Above the old bare fields of high Claramore.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Northern Mystery
Silver snowflakes fall
into the northern mystery,
so stark against the background
of the resilient evergreen tree -
The blue wind
finds it's course,
a flow of snow
and deadly force -
Rivers black
and frozen ice,
the unprepared
pay a terrible price -
The clear cold, sharp as
hot prairie lightning,
tears the frigid air
fierce and frightening -
More than
half the year,
a freezing death
lingers near -
The great northern mystery is
the courage of those who stay,
the strong and sturdy
who refuse to be driven away -
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Winter's Snowstorm
Nature hires her white winter coats
To still trees starkly dressed
Motion to the scene as wildlife notes.
Snowflakes settle on a Robins head blessed.
He pouts his red chest, not to blush
Rabbit stops wiggles his nose whisking snow,
Fuelled by the icy breeze’s push,
A flash from his eye’s and off he goe’s,
Synchronous vibrations of Mother Nature gropes
unleashing the resonant howls as the driving winds,
Fuel a snowstorm down the mountain slopes,
‘Neath overhang rocks the wolf packs huddle begins.
Unseen the movement of time holds its breath
For bears the whole winter in slumber,
Oblivious to an icy freezing death
Kept alive by their hibernating Jumper,
Clouds rush by with a lightning flash
As snow and sleet feeds the weathers vice,
Trees bend and fall with a splintered crash.
With several birds sealed in posterities ice.
Thunder cracks the whip in this freezing scene,
Thor declares enough is enough from the mountain tops,
Rumbles in the distance grow softer for white to go green,
Heralding a shaft of light appearing and the snow stops,
And a bird sings.
poem by Ken e Hall
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I Remember Once When I Was A Little Child
i remember
when i was a little child
i once climbed a tree
to take a look of those
down below me.
i simply sit there
and feast my eyes
on the tall mountain
far away from me.
i see a winding river
flowing to the sea.
i see memories.
i am a little child.
i am the father of
that sadness that
i left behind a rock.
i am the image of
that little boy
behind your face.
i am not noise.
i am the silence
of a very faraway
memory on that
cone mountain over
there with a snow
cap.I am my
small world like
a bird perched on
a twig. A small patch
of green grass. A handful
of clouds drifting on
my shoulder. I am
a silent memory.
I am listening inside
my little corner.
This heart still
of a little boy.
Always wondering.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Graveyard in the snow
Today, I cannot find your grave,
because the stone with your name
is set in the earth,
down, where it is not in the way,
when the caretakers mow the grass,
now you are covered with snow.
Everything is white,
so full of peace, so still,
I sit on the bench,
it is so cold, but
I feel so close to you,
after all, you are cold,
under the earth,
under this white sheet,
hidden, but there, I know.
Only a raven,
shiny in funeral coat of feathers,
black against the white,
sits with me, in a tree,
not far, insistently cawing,
a warning, an emphatic word
of solace.
The trees, dark green
under the snow,
are so silent,
I can hear a soft sliding,
when the clumps of snow
fall on the ground,
startling the raven.
He flies away,
a shadow against the clouds
of winter sky.
I must leave you now,
the deep cavity of my grief
is like the silence
of your snow-covered grave,
enticing me to stay.
But I have promised
a pledge to live,
before I can sleep
under the snow.
poem by Martina E. Elenbaas
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Song Of The Evergreens
Listen to the briskly whistling winter evergreen
Whispering through the frozen morning light
And tell me whats to come
Saying my time is near
Never fear
I close each year
Im winter
Reminding me to trade my t-shirts for my woven wools
Trade my sandals for my skis
Whispered warnings in the wind
Saying soon come the dancing snowflakes
Theyre kissing every tree
Theyre kissing you and me
Please hurry
Falling
Dazzling dancing diamonds from the sky
Prisms
Rainbow sparkled flurries in our eyes
Whipping across the frozen crystal meadow
Pond of ice
Race the snow
Well build a warming fire there
And cuddle close and wine and dine
The setting sun
The morning light will find us high
Shooting down the glistening mountain side
Screaming through the whispering pines
The freedom of each day
Will cleanse our minds
I can hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
I can hardly hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
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Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
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Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jeckoyva
They made the warrior's grave beside
The dashing of his native time:
And there was mourning in the glen--
The strong wail of a thousand men--
O'er him thus fallen in his pride,
Ere mist of age - or blight or blast
Had o'er his might spirit past.
They made the warrior's grave beneath
The bending of the wild elm's wreath,
When the dark hunter's piercing eye
Had found that mountain rest on high,
Where, scattered by the sharp wind's breath,
Beneath the ragged cliff were thrown
The strong belt and the mouldering bone.
Where was the warrior's foot, when first
The red sun on the mountain burst?
Where -- when the sultry noon-time came
On the green vales with scorching flame,
And made the woodlands faint with thirst?
'Twas where the wind is keen and loud,
And the gray eagle breasts the cloud.
Where was the warrior's foot when night
Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height?
None heard the loud and sudden crash--
None saw the fallen warrior dash
Down the bare rock so high and white!
But he that drooped not in the chase
Made on the hills his burial-place.
They found him there, when the long day
Of cold desertion passed away,
And traces on that barren cleft
Of struggling hard with death were left--
Deep marks and footprints in the clay!
And they have laid this feathery helm
By the dark river and green elm.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Winter's Come
Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn;
The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun;
That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn,
What a strange scene before us now does run--
Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun;
White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare;
The sycamore all withered in the sun.
No leaves are now upon the birch tree there:
All now is stript to the cold wintry air.
See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves--
And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue.
The winter chill on his cold bed receives
Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue.
Naked and bare the leafless trees repose.
Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare,
Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows;
That is not green, which was so through the year
Dark chill November draweth to a close.
Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors,
When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high;
While on the window shutters the wind roars,
And storms like furies pass remorseless by.
How pleasant on a feather bed to lie,
Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soar
With Dante or with Milton to regions high,
Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before,
Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.
poem by John Clare
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Autumnale for M lady ernestine
The falling leaves dance in the breeze
and clothe the ground beneath the trees,
in autumn colours rich a rare.
The trees themselves will soon be bare.
Left no defence against the wind.
Their winter plans are well designed,
bare twigs and branches hold less snow
than useless leaves they have let go
The wintry gales to no avail
try hard but they are doomed to fail,
They can’t destroy the sturdy trees;
resisting with apparent ease.
Although they bow before the blast
they know that winter cannot last
The winds will die and fade away
the trees will they’re here to stay.
Spring will return the trees will green
as if the winter had not been.
The trees put on their new spring clothes
along with every plant that grows.
8-Oct-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Slipin 'n' Slidin
You know I'm Slidin'.
You know I'm Slipin' N' Slidin'.
I'm sliding down the wall.
Trying to get a grip on what I can.
As the world beneath me crumbles.
See, I thought I had it all.
Now I find I'm 10 feet small.
And I never cease to stumble.
You can think you'll live forever.
You Dance till you drop.
And The Music don't stop.
Cos you know you want to be cool. Yeah!
Sliding down the wall.
Don't do me it all.
No it don't do me at all...When I can be so small
We've got all the funk we need to make me happy
Oooh Yeah.
We've got all the time the world has got to give.
Oh how I want to live yeah.
We're Sliding, Sliding
I'm hanging on a string.
Trying to get the chance to do my thing.
But the stakes are getting higher
Now that my woman's gone away.
She can my love a day.
Hey, Well I guess I'm not as cool as I used to be
Oh, everybody wants to take your space.
and some people want to take your place.
And now all these problems come to try ya
You know they just
And This is what they call 'The Crunch'.
But my head, my head's still 'Out For Lunch'
I've been sliding down the wall.
Alright
We've got all the funk we need to make me happy
Ooh Yeah.
We've got all the time the world has got to give.
Oh, How I want to live.
You can't fly above the slip and social slidin now.
Whoah
Get Down now Get Down
I'll bet that's a great insult
don't you mean to die
But you wanna stay high
Don't you know I'm sliding? Sliding Down The Wall
Now Don't you know I'm sliding
Sliding Down The Wall
Does anyone want to be sliding
Yeah Nobody wants to slide now
I'm now Sliding
You know I never know where I am
Never know where I'm can
Alright, Alright
You know I'm sliding.
Sliding down the wall yeah
Everybody wants to take your space.
and some people want to take your place.
And now all these problems come to try ya
I guess this is what they call 'The Crunch'
Oh but my head's still out for lunch!
You know I'm sliding down the wall right now.
I know yes I'm sliding. I know that I'm sliding.
Oh. Sliding down the walls sliding down the,
Sliding down the wall
song performed by by Jamiroquai
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Grey Mist Of A Healing Frost
Our tree has frozen in the snow,
its branches are now burdened low,
The waters let their corpses fall,
freezing and burying all.
Like a fog the snow rolls in,
birds fly through as the blizzard begins,
a sea of white covering the land,
proclaiming the King of winter grand.
The heavenly snow is our Delight,
and fills our world with resonating light,
with peaceful Silence floating in the wind,
healing our tree that has been skinned.
poem by Soren Valentine
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My Winter Freedom
Freedom across all oceans and skies
Looking through a window into white
Into a glassy, cold terrain
I see my winter freedom
Into the mountains and pass the bare trees
I see my winter freedom
Pass the snow white roads and trees full of mysteries
Comes the joy of the first snow
The innocent breeze across your face
The endless walk into the night
Gazing across the sky at the night’s moon
To the morning sun across the horizon
Reflecting off the glassy ice and foggy mountain tops
Seeing and breathing in the first days of winter
But mostly…
Believing
In the wonders and joys of
Your Winter Freedom
poem by Rachel Pedroza
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