I wanted to post a couple of favorite wintertime poems before winter gets too far gone. They are both a little lengthy and I would normally post them separately, but with Valentine’s Day coming up next week and then looking forward to spring after that, my focus will turn from winter.

The Snow Folks

I look out the window,
And I see a place
That’s covered all over
With white, frosted lace.

This place once had colors,
But it changed overnight.
And now it’s a
Glistening, magical white!

I wonder who lives
In a place where I’d freeze,
If I didn’t wear sweaters
And boots to my knees.

These folk must be snow
From their heads to their toes!
For I’d never be happy
With frost on my nose.

The folks who live here
Just love to be out
In the cold, wintry drifts
As the snow swirls about.

They’re happy in blizzards.
They smile through a storm.
They laugh when it freezes,
But they cry when it’s warm!

~ Author Unknown

(Photo courtesy of the stock xchng)

The Winter Evening

by William Cowper

Oh winter, ruler of th’ inverted year,
Thy scatter’d hair with sleet like ashes fill’d,
Thy breath congeal’d upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fring’d with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp’d in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urg’d by storms along its slipp’ry way,
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold’st the sun
A pris’ner in the yet undawning east,
Short’ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rosy west; but kindly still
Compensating his loss with added hours
Of social converse and instructive ease,
And gath’ring, at short notice, in one group
The family dispers’d, and fixing thought,
Not less dispers’d by day-light and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb’d retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted ev’ning, know.

Those are lines 120-143 of a 193-line poem. You can find it in its entirety here. Winter is easily my least favorite season — I don’t like the bare trees, grey skies, and short days. But this poem reminds me that there are many things to love about every season God made. The following lines talk about someone doing needlework –

But here the needle plies its busy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow’r,
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,
Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos’d,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair…

And of

The poet’s or historian’s page, by one
Made vocal for th’ amusement of the rest;
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;
And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct.

It’s a cozy picture of a winter’s night at home without the usual visitors and responsibilities, spending time together doing needlework, making music, reading aloud to the others.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev’ning in.

Hope you have a cozy, peaceful winter’s evening.

(Graphic courtesy of Grandma’s Graphics)

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Wild Rose Reader.