Thank you, Robert, for this wonderful collection! I also love to read and re-read Lines for Winter by Mark Strand. Wonderful Thanks so much for this, Robert. Thank you so much, Robert, for this power-grouping of winter poems. I favor Neruda for the starkness of his imagery, but all are excellent as I stare out at my own snowscape today! Thanks Robert! I love Charles Simic!!! So I listened to his first. Love it.
- small winter poems – in praise of small things!
- 'Snow' poems - Hello Poetry.
- Eine ökologisch orientierte Unternehmenspolitik und deren Möglichkeiten und Grenzen bei der Bilanzierung, dargestellt an Beispielen (German Edition).
- LETHAL DISCORD!
I look forward to reading the rest. I appreciate the inspiration and poetic camaraderie that you and your blog provide! These choices get no argument from me, especially the first one, which is my favorite poem, period.
Winter Dark Poems - Dark Poems About Winter
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! He disappeared in the dead of winter: The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, And snow disfigured the public statues; The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
Blues in White Minor. September Roses Oct Snow storm. The arctic cold has brushed my cheek once again The skies are stained white and the ringing in my ears is louder than ever I wonder what the clouds are doing, I never see them anymore The night doesnt come but the sun doesn't shine I have a silver notebook I write, spearmint Because my eyes are watering but I feel nothing The world is dry while the air is full And the heavens take their morning pills Wash their face Head off sleepily to begrudgingly watch the icy seas The wind bites my cheeks But moves in such silence I wonder if the feeling is not just my routine punishment At least I'm used to my spirits At least I have a jacket on At least the heavens didnt take a sick day all together.
Another Jun Was there no other way to carry her softly upon shaken ground?
Winter Dark Poems
I have but one thing to say, please be kind to others as you would like others to be toward you. It happens too often and I could say I know the reasons why, for others for their sake if only I could take on their pain. So am I. Kevin J Taylor Oct Snow last night. Snow last night Raven king Calligraph on folds of white.
Calligraph means to write in the style of calligraphy but is used here as a proper noun. ConnectHook Feb Snow — Bound. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat, It sank from sight before it set. A chill no coat, however stout, Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, A hard, dull bitterness of cold, That checked, mid-vein, the circling race Of life-blood in the sharpened face, The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar Of Ocean on his wintry shore, And felt the strong pulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air. Around the glistening wonder bent The blue walls of the firmament, No cloud above, no earth below, — A universe of sky and snow! Our buskins on our feet we drew; With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, To guard our necks and ears from snow, We cut the solid whiteness through. We reached the barn with merry din, And roused the prisoned brutes within.
All day the gusty north-wind bore The loosening drift its breath before; Low circling round its southern zone, The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth Unbound the spell, and testified Of human life and thought outside. We minded that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone. As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank From sight beneath the smothering bank, We piled, with care, our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney-back, — The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, And on its top the stout back-stick; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; While radiant with a mimic flame Outside the sparkling drift became, And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
What matter how the night behaved? What matter how the north-wind raved? O Time and Change! Ah, brother!
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, Since He who knows our need is just, That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees! Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, The truth to flesh and sense unknown, That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose its own! And mingled in its merry whirl The grandam and the laughing girl. We heard the tales of witchcraft old, And dream and sign and marvel told To sleepy listeners as they lay Stretched idly on the salted hay, Adrift along the winding shores, When favoring breezes deigned to blow The square sail of the gundelow And idle lay the useless oars.
Our mother, while she turned her wheel Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, Told how the Indian hordes came down At midnight on Concheco town, And how her own great-uncle bore His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. Then, suddenly, as if to save The good man from his living grave, A ripple on the water grew, A school of porpoise flashed in view.
Be shame to him of woman born Who hath for such but thought of scorn.
There, too, our elder sister plied Her evening task the stand beside; A full, rich nature, free to trust, Truthful and almost sternly just, Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, And make her generous thought a fact, Keeping with many a light disguise The secret of self-sacrifice. O heart sore-tried! Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, Or from the shade of saintly palms, Or silver reach of river calms, Do those large eyes behold me still?
ecm-ukraine.com.ua/includes/josyhytuv/sayt-intim-znakomstv-orenburg.php And yet, dear heart! Safe in thy immortality, What change can reach the wealth I hold? What chance can mar the pearl and gold Thy love hath left in trust with me?
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