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Winter Poems to add a nice touch to your nature journal
Here are some winter poems that express the mood of the season. These short verses are simple expressions. I tend to like the simple and short and meaningful verses instead one ones that stretch on for pages. These winter poems can be added to your nature journal to bring a seasonal touch. The poems were all taken from resources on Project Gutenberg at http://www.gutenberg.org. The poems are in the public domain and copyright-free. Signs of Winter The cat runs races with her tail. The dog Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass. The swine run round and grunt and play with straw, Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack. Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow Unceremonious visit pays and croaks, Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl Bobs hasty out--wheels round and, scared as soon, As hastily retires. The ducks grow wild And from the muddy pond fly up and wheel A circle round the village and soon, tired, Plunge in the pond again. The maids in haste Snatch from the orchard hedge the mizzled clothes And laughing hurry in to keep them dry. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet The Old Year The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark or place In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none. All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he. He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall-- A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all. Old papers thrown away, Old garments cast aside, The talk of yesterday, Are things identified; But time once torn away No voices can recall: The eve of New Year's Day Left the Old Year lost to all. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet 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. Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English Poet WINTER RAIN Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow: Where the kind rain sinks and sinks, Green of Spring will follow. Yet a lapse of weeks Buds will burst their edges, Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks, In the woods and hedges; Weave a bower of love For birds to meet each other, Weave a canopy above Nest and egg and mother. But for fattening rain We should have no flowers, Never a bud or leaf again But for soaking showers; Never a mated bird In the rocking tree-tops, Never indeed a flock or herd To graze upon the lea-crops. Lambs so woolly white, Sheep the sun-bright leas on, They could have no grass to bite But for rain in season. We should find no moss In the shadiest places, Find no waving meadow grass Pied with broad-eyed daisies: But miles of barren sand, With never a son or daughter, Not a lily on the land, Or lily on the water. Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English Poet Alas! in winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? William Allingham (1824–1889) BITTER FOR SWEET Summer is gone with all its roses, Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers, Its warm air and refreshing showers: And even Autumn closes. Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going, And winter comes which is yet colder; Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder, And the last buds cease blowing. Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English Poet Winter Walk The holly bush, a sober lump of green, Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey, And smiles at winter be it eer so keen With all the leafy luxury of May. And O it is delicious, when the day In winter's loaded garment keenly blows And turns her back on sudden falling snows, To go where gravel pathways creep between Arches of evergreen that scarce let through A single feather of the driving storm; And in the bitterest day that ever blew The walk will find some places still and warm Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm To little birds that flirt and start away. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet Emmonsail's Heath in Winter I love to see the old heath's withered brake Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling, While the old heron from the lonely lake Starts slow and flaps his melancholy wing, And oddling crow in idle motions swing On the half rotten ashtree's topmost twig, Beside whose trunk the gipsy makes his bed. Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread, The fieldfares chatter in the whistling thorn And for the awe round fields and closen rove, And coy bumbarrels twenty in a drove Flit down the hedgerows in the frozen plain And hang on little twigs and start again. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet Signs of Winter The cat runs races with her tail. The dog Leaps over the orchard hedge and knarls the grass. The swine run round and grunt and play with straw, Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack. Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow Unceremonious visit pays and croaks, Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl Bobs hasty out--wheels round and, scared as soon, As hastily retires. The ducks grow wild And from the muddy pond fly up and wheel A circle round the village and soon, tired, Plunge in the pond again. The maids in haste Snatch from the orchard hedge the mizzled clothes And laughing hurry in to keep them dry. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet The Old Year The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark or place In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none. All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he. He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall-- A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all. Old papers thrown away, Old garments cast aside, The talk of yesterday, Are things identified; But time once torn away No voices can recall: The eve of New Year's Day Left the Old Year lost to all. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet 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. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet Winter makes me happy. It is a season in which I like to count the good things in my life every day. I didn't realize that I had included so many of John Clare's winter
poems. I guess it is just a hazard because I had liked his poetry for
so long. I would love to include some of my favorite Chinese and
Japanese nature poems but I haven't find a good translation version in
the public domain. When I do I guess this site will inlcude "a ton" of
Chinese and Japanese poems.
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