Enjoy this collection of short winter poems. The writers express their thoughts about wintertime. Winter can be a time that we enjoy the comfort of a warm home while experiencing the briskness of a winter walk.
Winter is a time when the days are shorter, however, the night sky is more brilliant.
Share these poems with others to help express an appreciation of this season.
Falling upon the frozen world last night
I heard the slow beat of the winter rain -
Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain;
The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might;
Far better had the fixedness of white
And uncomplaining snows - which make no sign,
But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine -
Concealed its sorrow from all human sight.
Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years,
I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.
Though sinewy Fate deals her most skillful blow,
I do not waste the gall now of my tears,
But feed my pride upon its bitter, while
I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.
The Green Grass Under The Snow
Poet: Annie A. Preston
The work of the sun is slow,
But as sure as heaven, we know;
So we'll not forget,
When the skies are wet,
There's green grass under the snow.
When the winds of winter blow,
Wailing like voices of woe,
There are April showers,
And buds and flowers,
And green grass under the snow.
We find that it's ever so
In this life's uneven flow;
We've only to wait,
In the face of fate,
For the green grass under the snow.
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
Winter brings the shorter days Less of sun and its rays Coldness is felt in the air And more clothes we do wear.
But winter can also bring lots of fun Skating, snowshoeing, and
tobogganing Rosy cheeks for all to see Enjoy hot chocolate or coffee
Don't waste away those winter days Get out and find some play Enjoy the season as it won't last Get out and have a blast!
Ice and snow, ice and snow,
Frozen fields where e'er we go.
Frozen fields and frozen lakes,
Frosted o'er like wedding cakes.
Girls and boys leave your toys.
Come and taste cold-weather joys.
Bring your sleds and bring your skates.
Hasten now while winter waits.
Now the skies are leaden cold,
Last lone leaves are falling;
Sap is shrinking; birds fly south,
To their laggards calling.
All outdoors is growing numb.
Wood ways coldly greet us;
We must wait the winter's will
Ere the blossoms meet us.
How can sunlight flicker out
On dead stems, I wonder?
Hark ! Was that an elfin laugh
From the thicket yonder?
Gray November's willful child.
None to stay or stint her,
Flaunts her tousled yellow locks.
In the face of winter!
Gone Is Summer
Poet: Howard Carleton Tripp
Now the dreary winds may blow
Gone are all the summer hours,
And the chilling sleet and snow
Shrouds the sepulchre of flowers;
But the spring will come again,
And will wake to life once more
All the blossoms in the glen,
All the wavelets on the shore.
Thus is life: its stormy hours
Strengthen us for weal or woe;
And the summer's sun and showers
Yield to winter's ice and snow;
But when childhood's spring has fled
Summer gives her wealth of bloom,
While man's autumn soon is wed
To his winter's shrouded tomb.
But death's spring-time may appear
At the resurrection mom;
And the kind deeds we've done here
Be as blossoms newly born.
Then no more the winds shall blow,
Gone shall be life's trying hours;
And November's sleet and snow
Shall not blight the Eden flowers.
Poet: Mrs. M. J. E. Crawford
The balmy scent of spring is on the breeze;
'Tis not the scent of flowers, they bloom not yet;
'Tis not the early blossoming of trees,
Their tiny leaf-buds are not more than set;
I know not whence the breathing fragrance flows,
Which comes upon the first warm breath of spring,
Long ere the violet or early rose
Unfold their sweets to woo the zephyr's wing;
Mayhap it cometh from the dark-brown earth
Where sleeps the loveliness of summer hours,
And the young winds have in their early mirth
Stirred up the odors of the perished flowers.
I know not, and it matters not to know,
The secret of the March wind's balmy breath;
I love it better that its murmurs low
Are waked in scenes which wear the hue of death -
The mourning hue which chilly autumn gave -
It sounds like music breathed above the tomb,
Whose soft notes tell of hope beyond the grave,
As March winds herald April's coming bloom.
Poet: John H. Bryant
The day had been a calm and sunny day,
And tinged with amber was the sky at even;
The fleecy clouds at length had rolled away,
And lay in furrows on the eastern heaven;
The moon arose and shed a glimmering ray,
And round her orb a misty circle lay.
The hoarfrost glittered on the naked heath,
The roar of distant winds was loud and deep,
The dry leaves rustled in each passing breath,
And the gay world was lost in quiet sleep.
Such was the time when, on the landscape brown,
Through a December air the snow came down.
The morning came, the dreary morn, at last,
And showed the whitened waste. The shivering herd
Lowed on the hoary meadow-ground, and fast
Fell the light flakes upon the earth unstirred;
The forest firs with glittering snows o'er-laid
Stood like hoar priests in robes of white arrayed.
In Winter Days
Poet: Helen M. Richardson
When autumn breezes rattle at the casement,
And whistle through the pine-trees at the door;
When squirrels store up nuts without abatement,
And corn-stalks pile up on the old barn floor;
When robins in large flocks begin to chatter
About the journey southward, near at hand,
And crickets shrilly chirp about the matter
Of winter days when they will all disband, -
We dream of joys beside the fireside waiting -
The book, the game, the quiet social hour
When we again may think of spring birds mating,
Of sleeping bud unfolding into flower.
Winter would have no terror to appal us
Did we but mate our action and desire
Unto the duties that forever call us,
And bid us e'en though storm-bound to acquire
The faith that holds the bird poised in mid-ocean
Above a storm-tossed sea, its wings out-spread,
Conscious that through life's turmoil and commotion
We shall be safely and securely led.
Poet: Robert Southey
A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose.
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way.
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth.
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,
Or circled by them, as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
Poet: John Paul Bocock
Hail, genial glow of frosty health,
Old-fashioned Winter, hail!
Here's welcome to thine icy wealth
And all thy glittering mail!
The ozone crackles overhead,
The runnel 'neath the hill
Crisps blithely in its little bed
And all at once is still!
What though thy snow be slush below,
Thy breath be sleet above -
Just for the sake of long ago
Here's welcome and our love!