As winter enters this land of rivers and lakes,
the snow is more than a foot in depth.
Even though my hat is made of bamboo
and my coat is woven from straw,
This body’s warmth is also a debt
we owe to our great king.
This poem is in the public domain. The Ever White Mountain; Korean Lyrics in the Classical Sijo Form (Rutland, Vt., Tuttle, 1965).
And the robin flew Into the air, the air, The white mist through; And small and rare The night-frost fell Into the calm and misty dell. And the dusk gathered low, And the silver moon and stars On the frozen snow Drew taper bars, Kindled winking fires In the hooded briers. And the sprawling Bear Growled deep in the sky; And Orion's hair Streamed sparkling by: But the North sighed low, "Snow, snow, more snow!"
from Poems (1906) Hazell, Watson and Viney, LD. This poem is in the public domain.
All day the clouds
Grow cold and fall,
And soft the white fleece shrouds
Field, hill and wall;
And now I know
Why comes the snow:
The bare black places lie
Too near the sky.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on December 18, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.
Once with my scarf knotted over my mouth I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill and did not know where I was going except to the top of it. In those days we went out like that. Even children went out like that. Someone was crying hard at home again, raging blizzard of sobs. I dragged the sled by its rope, which we normally did not do when snow was coming down so hard, pulling my brother whom I called by our secret name as if we could be other people under the skin. The snow bit into my face, prickling the rim of the head where the hair starts coming out. And it was a big one. It would come down and down for days. People would dig their cars out like potatoes. How are you doing back there? I shouted, and he said Fine, I’m doing fine, in the sunniest voice he could muster and I think I should love him more today for having used it. At the top we turned and he slid down, steering himself with the rope gripped in his mittened hands. I stumbled behind sinking deeply, shouting Ho! Look at him go! as if we were having a good time. Alone on the hill. That was the deepest I ever went into the snow. Now I think of it when I stare at paper or into silences between human beings. The drifting accumulation. A father goes months without speaking to his son. How there can be a place so cold any movement saves you. Ho! You bang your hands together, stomp your feet. The father could die! The son! Before the weather changes.
"Snow" from Fuel by Naomi Shihab Nye. Copyright © 1998 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Used by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
We have circled the area for hours, unsure
where we are on the map, and when we are sure,
not sure how to get where we’re going to view
cathedrals and broken marbles in alcoves, and it’s
snowing, flakes laying a little carpet around us as we
search for a way out, a way back into a clearing while
one of us keeps looking at a map as we single-file
down narrow streets leaving a snow trail and see
a train station where we can board as soon as we
figure out where it will take us while the snow
falls and keeps falling and icing the tracks, engines
struggling and wheezing, a distant whistle, wind
swirling snow, and snow covering benches, and sky
is paper, a few birds scratching marks, one leaving
hieroglyphs on the ground beside us as we look
at the map and see nothing we know but know
that some time before long we’ll be somewhere
we want to go as the snow keeps falling and falling.
Reprinted from Solving For X (Spartan Press, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Maryfrances Wagner. Used with permission of the author.
Sounds of the winter too,
Sunshine upon the mountains—many a distant strain
From cheery railroad train—from nearer field, barn, house
The whispering air—even the mute crops, garner’d apples, corn,
Children’s and women’s tones—rhythm of many a farmer and of flail,
And old man’s garrulous lips among the rest, Think not we give out yet,
Forth from these snowy hairs we keep up yet the lilt.
This poem is in the public domain.
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
This poem is in the public domain.
It is the time of rain and snow I spend sleepless nights And watch the frost Frail as your love Gathers in the dawn.
From Written on the Sky: Poems from the Japanese, translated by Kenneth Rexroth. From the original by Izumi Shikibu. Copyright © 1955 by New Directions Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.
Late December grinds on down.
The sky stops, slate on slate,
scatters a cold light of snow
across a field of brittle weeds.
Each boot step cracks a stalk.
The pigments have been dragged
earthwards and clasped. The groundhog
curls among the roots curling.
Towards home I peel blossoms
of frozen mud from my pant legs
and pull off burrs that waited
for wind or the flashing red fox.
In my jacket pocket I find
a beechnut, slightly cracked
open, somehow fallen there,
and, enfolded inside of it,
a spider that unclenches
yellow in my steaming palm –
a spider that is
the sun.
Copyright © 2004 by Ray McNiece. From Bone Orchard Conga (WordSmith Press, 4th Edition, 2004). Used with the permission of the poet.
After the winter rain,
Sing, robin! Sing, swallow!
Grasses are in the lane,
Buds and flowers will follow.
Woods shall ring, blithe and gay,
With bird-trill and twitter,
Though the skies weep to-day,
And the winds are bitter.
Though deep call unto deep
As calls the thunder,
And white the billows leap
The tempest under;
Softly the waves shall come
Up the long, bright beaches,
With dainty, flowers of foam
And tenderest speeches …
After the wintry pain,
And the long, long sorrow,
Sing, heart!—for thee again
Joy comes with the morrow.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 21, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.