In the Bleak Midwinter Verse

[Praefectus Praetorio]

I cannot write two lines of decent poetry, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate or love it.

I shall post a few winter-themed poems I love and other are welcome to contribute

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Places [III. Winter Sun]
Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933

My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro.
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

A Winter's Tale
D. H. Lawrence - 1885-1930

Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow,
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
On towards the pines at the hills’ white verge.

I cannot see her, since the mist’s white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But she’s waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.

Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That she’s only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow –
Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?

 

[Barbaria1]

Places [III. Winter Sun]
Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933

My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro.
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.

My naked body is white with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the crucified,
Their bodies writhing to and fro.
God pity all the nailed and tied
Who dance above the fields of snow.

My cross is made of hardened wood,
Gnarly, splintered, and very old,
And somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.

 

[poem21045]

I cannot write two lines of decent poetry, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate or love it.

I shall post a few winter-themed poems I love and other are welcome to contribute

Here's one most of us read in school.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Some years after this was published, Frost gave a reading --including this poem-- at a college. Afterwards, during a question/answer session, a young undergrad miss stood and asked "Why did you repeat the last line, Mr. Frost?" Before Frost could answer, she volunteered a very long explanation of what she thought was the meaning of those last lines. Having finished her exegesis, she sat down.
Frost looked at her for a few moments, then said, "Well, young lady, I just couldn't think of a good rhyme for "sleep."

 

[thehangingtree]

Here's one most of us read in school.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Some years after this was published, Frost gave a reading --including this poem-- at a college. Afterwards, during a question/answer session, a young undergrad miss stood and asked "Why did you repeat the last line, Mr. Frost?" Before Frost could answer, she volunteered a very long explanation of what she thought was the meaning of those last lines. Having finished her exegesis, she sat down.
Frost looked at her for a few moments, then said, "Well, young lady, I just couldn't think of a good rhyme for "sleep."

There was a parody of this done by Mad Magazine... 'Whose Olds is this...'

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Here's one most of us read in school.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Some years after this was published, Frost gave a reading --including this poem-- at a college. Afterwards, during a question/answer session, a young undergrad miss stood and asked "Why did you repeat the last line, Mr. Frost?" Before Frost could answer, she volunteered a very long explanation of what she thought was the meaning of those last lines. Having finished her exegesis, she sat down.
Frost looked at her for a few moments, then said, "Well, young lady, I just couldn't think of a good rhyme for "sleep."

His more "serious" explanation was that since the poem's rhyme scheme was perpetual, that is, the third line in each verse gives the rhyme for the next verse, it would go on forever. By previewing the last line in the third in that verse, he could have a single rhyme in all for lines and not have to write another.

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Here's one most of us read in school.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Some years after this was published, Frost gave a reading --including this poem-- at a college. Afterwards, during a question/answer session, a young undergrad miss stood and asked "Why did you repeat the last line, Mr. Frost?" Before Frost could answer, she volunteered a very long explanation of what she thought was the meaning of those last lines. Having finished her exegesis, she sat down.
Frost looked at her for a few moments, then said, "Well, young lady, I just couldn't think of a good rhyme for "sleep."

A lesser known Frost poem of winter. More to my stage of life.

An Old Man’s Winter Night

All out-of-doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off—and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon—such as she was,
So late-arising—to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man—one man—can’t keep a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It’s thus he does it of a winter night.

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

Since it's my thread, I declare that beautiful Winter pictures are allowed

 

[thehangingtree]

Since it's my thread, I declare that beautiful Winter pictures are allowed
View attachment 794932

And bowed to!!!

 

[Barbaria1]

Since it's my thread, I declare that beautiful Winter pictures are allowed
View attachment 794932

But there’s no one crucified in that scene!

 

[windar]

How about a poem set to music (AKA, a song)? Joni is from Saskatchewan and knows winter

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

The Bells - Verses I and IV
Edgar Allan Poe - 1809-1849

I.

Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

IV.

Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

 

[Apostate]

Here's one most of us read in school.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Back in the Carter Administration the Harvard Lampoon put out an SAT parody, in which the English and Math sections were combined. One of the questions involved an adaptation of that poem, the last stanza of which read

The wood are lovely, dark and deep.
But I’ve a schedule to keep.
How many miles before I sleep?
Compute the miles before I sleep.

 

[phlebas]

No snow here I'm afraid.
Heat and bushfires, and beaches too.


to drag the literary standard down


it's


A Christmas poem from the bush bard Banjo Paterson, the man who wrote "The Man From Snowy River". Eul may find the language rather interesting:

Santa Claus In The Bush
by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson - 1864-1941
It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
When the wheat was ripe and tall,
A stranger rode to the farmer's gate--
A sturdy man and a small.


"Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
and bid the stranger stay,
And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne,
for the morn is Christmas day."


"Nay noo, nay noo," said the dour guidwife,
"But ye should let him be,
He's maybe only a drover chap,
From the land o' the Darling Pea."


"Wi a drovers tales, and a drover's thirst
tae swiggle the hail nicht through,
Or he's maybe a life assurance carle,
to talk ye black and blue."


"Guidwife, he's never a drover chap
for their swags are neat and thin,
And he's never a life assurance carl
with the brick dust burnt in his skin."


"Guidwife, guidwife, be nae sae dour---
for the wheat stands ripe and tall
And we shore a seven pound fleece this year,
ewes and weaners and all."


"There is grass to spare and the stock are fat,
where they whiles are gaunt and thin,
And we owe a tithe to the travellin' poor,
so we maun ask him in."


"Ye can set him a chair at table side
and gie him a bite tae eat,
An omelette made of a new-laid egg,
or a tasty bit o' meat."


"But the native cats hae taen fowls--
they havena left a leg,
And he'll get nae omelette at
a' till the emu lays an egg."


"Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
"to whaur the emus bide,
Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest
while the auld cock sits beside."


"But speak them fair and speak them saft
lest they kick ye a fearful jolt,
Ye can gie them a feed of the half inch nails
or a rusty carriage bolt."


So little son Jack ran blithely down
with the rusty nails in hand,
Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched
by their nest in the open sand.


And there he has gathered the new-laid egg---
'twould feed 3 men or 4,
And the emus came for the half inch nails
right up to the settlers door.


"A waste o' food," said the dour guidwife,
as she took the egg with a frown,
"But he gets nae meat unless
ye rin a paddy-melon down."


"Gang oot, gang oot, my little son Jack---
wi your twa-three doggies sma,
Gin ye come nae back wi a paddy-melon,
then come nae back at a'."


So little son Jack he raced and he ran
and he was bare o' the feet,
And soon he captured a paddy-melon---
was gorged with stolen wheat.


"Sit doon, sit doon," my bonny wee man;
"to the best that the hoose can do,
An omelette made o' the emu egg,
and a paddy melon stew."


"'Tis well, 'tis well", said the bonny wee man,
"I have eaten the wide world's meat,
And the food that is given with right good will
is the sweetest food to eat."


"But the night draws on to Christmas Day
and I must rise and go,
For I have a mighty way to ride
to the land of the Esquimaux."


"And it's there I must load my sledges up
with the reindeers four-in-hand,
That go to the North, South, East and West---
to every Christian land."


"Tae the Esquimaux," said the dour guidwife---
"ye suit my husband well,
For when he gets up on his journey horse
he's a bit o' a liar himsel'."


Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man--
to his old horse grazing nigh,
And away like a meteor flash they went
far off to the Northern sky.


When the children woke on the Christmas morn,
they chattered with might and main,
For a sword and a gun had little son Jack,
and a braw new doll had Jane,
And a packet o' screws had the twa emus;
but the dour guidwife got nane!

 

[Praefectus Praetorio]

The namesake for this thread

Christina Rossetti. "A Christmas Carol" 1872

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain,
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty —
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom Cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom Angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and Archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only His Mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am? —
If I were a Shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man
I would do my part, —
Yet what I can I give Him, —
Give my heart.

 

[Migoz2]

William Shakespeare

Winter
(From Love’s Labour’s Lost)

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot

(Keeling the pot is to cool (a hot or boiling liquid) by stirring, skimming, or pouring in something cold, in order to prevent it from boiling over.)

 

[poem21045]

The namesake for this thread

Christina Rossetti. "A Christmas Carol" 1872

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain,
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty —
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom Cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom Angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and Archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only His Mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am? —
If I were a Shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man
I would do my part, —
Yet what I can I give Him, —
Give my heart.

With music (the "setting," as it's known) by Harold Darke. I think this was voted the best Christmas hymn of all time about 10 years ago. I remember thinking, "Naaa." Personally, I like Silent Night or O Holy Night much better.
C Rossetti--always the maudlin poet. Ever seen a pic of her smiling?

Nope.

 

[cynthia the inocent]

No snow here I'm afraid.
Heat and bushfires, and beaches too.
View attachment 795008

to drag the literary standard down
View attachment 795007

it's
View attachment 795009

A Christmas poem from the bush bard Banjo Paterson, the man who wrote "The Man From Snowy River". Eul may find the language rather interesting:

Santa Claus In The Bush
by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson - 1864-1941
It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
When the wheat was ripe and tall,
A stranger rode to the farmer's gate--
A sturdy man and a small.


"Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
and bid the stranger stay,
And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne,
for the morn is Christmas day."


"Nay noo, nay noo," said the dour guidwife,
"But ye should let him be,
He's maybe only a drover chap,
From the land o' the Darling Pea."


"Wi a drovers tales, and a drover's thirst
tae swiggle the hail nicht through,
Or he's maybe a life assurance carle,
to talk ye black and blue."


"Guidwife, he's never a drover chap
for their swags are neat and thin,
And he's never a life assurance carl
with the brick dust burnt in his skin."


"Guidwife, guidwife, be nae sae dour---
for the wheat stands ripe and tall
And we shore a seven pound fleece this year,
ewes and weaners and all."


"There is grass to spare and the stock are fat,
where they whiles are gaunt and thin,
And we owe a tithe to the travellin' poor,
so we maun ask him in."


"Ye can set him a chair at table side
and gie him a bite tae eat,
An omelette made of a new-laid egg,
or a tasty bit o' meat."


"But the native cats hae taen fowls--
they havena left a leg,
And he'll get nae omelette at
a' till the emu lays an egg."


"Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
"to whaur the emus bide,
Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest
while the auld cock sits beside."


"But speak them fair and speak them saft
lest they kick ye a fearful jolt,
Ye can gie them a feed of the half inch nails
or a rusty carriage bolt."


So little son Jack ran blithely down
with the rusty nails in hand,
Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched
by their nest in the open sand.


And there he has gathered the new-laid egg---
'twould feed 3 men or 4,
And the emus came for the half inch nails
right up to the settlers door.


"A waste o' food," said the dour guidwife,
as she took the egg with a frown,
"But he gets nae meat unless
ye rin a paddy-melon down."


"Gang oot, gang oot, my little son Jack---
wi your twa-three doggies sma,
Gin ye come nae back wi a paddy-melon,
then come nae back at a'."


So little son Jack he raced and he ran
and he was bare o' the feet,
And soon he captured a paddy-melon---
was gorged with stolen wheat.


"Sit doon, sit doon," my bonny wee man;
"to the best that the hoose can do,
An omelette made o' the emu egg,
and a paddy melon stew."


"'Tis well, 'tis well", said the bonny wee man,
"I have eaten the wide world's meat,
And the food that is given with right good will
is the sweetest food to eat."


"But the night draws on to Christmas Day
and I must rise and go,
For I have a mighty way to ride
to the land of the Esquimaux."


"And it's there I must load my sledges up
with the reindeers four-in-hand,
That go to the North, South, East and West---
to every Christian land."


"Tae the Esquimaux," said the dour guidwife---
"ye suit my husband well,
For when he gets up on his journey horse
he's a bit o' a liar himsel'."


Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man--
to his old horse grazing nigh,
And away like a meteor flash they went
far off to the Northern sky.


When the children woke on the Christmas morn,
they chattered with might and main,
For a sword and a gun had little son Jack,
and a braw new doll had Jane,
And a packet o' screws had the twa emus;
but the dour guidwife got nane!
[/Q

View attachment 794960View attachment 794961

I enjoy a good poem, even when I don't always get the meaning. A gentleman could talk me into being naughty with a poem, a glass or two of wine and a crackling fire place. Or a lady for that matter.