Go, Winter!

    Go, Winter!    Go thy ways!    We want again
    The twitter of the bluebird and the wren;
    Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine
            Of Summer's sun - not thine. -

    Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love
    And all the heartening fervencies thereof,
    It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin
            Pathetic yearnings in.

    So get thee from us!    We are cold, God wot,
    Even as thou art. - We remember not
    How blithe we hailed thy coming. - That was O
            Too long - too long ago!

    Get from us utterly!    Ho!    Summer then
    Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been,
    And thy last icy footprint melt and mold
            In her first marigold.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Old Bob White

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Some Scattering Remarks Of Bub's.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Child-World

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

By Her White Bed.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Winter Fancies

I

Winter without
    And warmth within;
The winds may shout
    And the storm begin;
The snows may pack
    At the window pane,
And the skies grow black,
    And the sun remain
Hidden away
    The livelong day -
But here - in here is the warmth of May!

II

Swoop your spitefullest
    Up the flue,
    Wild Winds - do!
What in the world do I care for you?
O delightfullest
    Weather of all,
    Howl and squall,
And shake the trees till the last leaves fall!

III

The joy one feels,
    In an easy chair,
Cocking his heels
    In the dancing air
That wreathes the rim of a roaring stove
Whose heat loves better than hearts can love,
Will not permit
    The coldest day
 ...

James Whitcomb Riley

A Dream Of Summer

Bland as the morning breath of June
The southwest breezes play;
And, through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summers day.
The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hillside cell forsakes,
The muskrat leaves his nook,
The bluebird in the meadow brakes
Is singing with the brook.
Bear up, O Mother Nature! cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee!

So, in those winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear
Oerswept from Memorys frozen pole,
Will sunny days appear.
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how beneath the winters snow
L...

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Plea For Our Northern Winters.

"Oh, Earth, where is the mantle of pleasant emerald dye
That robed thee in sweet summer-time, and gladdened heart and eye,
Adorned with blooming roses, graceful ferns and blossoms sweet,
And bright green moss like velvet that lay soft beneath our feet?"

"What! am I not as lovely in my garb of spotless white?
Was young bride in her beauty ever clothed in robe as bright?
Or, if you seek for tinting warm, at morn and evening hour,
You'll find me bathed in blushes bright as those of summer flower."

"But, Earth, I miss the verdure of thy woods and forests old,
The waving of their foliage, casting shadows o'er the wold,
The golden sunbeams peering 'mid the green leaves here and there,
And I sigh to see the branches so cheerless and so bare."

"But oft they're clothed i...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

January 1, 1829.

Winter is come again. The sweet south west
Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound
By the frost fetter. There is not a sound
Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid
An icy finger on the lip of streams,
And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends
Many sweet voices with its odors out,
And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe
With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!
God made his ministry a silent one,
And he has given him a foot of steel
And an unlovely aspect, and a breath
Sharp to the senses - and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid
Under the shadow of his hand. Look up!
And it shall be interpreted - ...

Nathaniel Parker Willis

Time Of Clearer Twitterings

I.

Time of crisp and tawny leaves,
And of tarnished harvest sheaves,
And of dusty grasses - weeds -
Thistles, with their tufted seeds
Voyaging the Autumn breeze
Like as fairy argosies:
Time of quicker flash of wings,
And of clearer twitterings
In the grove, or deeper shade
Of the tangled everglade, -
Where the spotted water-snake
Coils him in the sunniest brake;
And the bittern, as in fright,
Darts, in sudden, slanting flight,
Southward, while the startled crane
Films his eyes in dreams again.

II

Down along the dwindled creek
We go loitering. We speak
Only with old questionings
Of the dear remembered things
Of the days of long ago,
When the stream seemed thus and so
In our boyish eyes: - The bank
G...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Departure Of Summer.

Summer is gone on swallows' wings,
And Earth has buried all her flowers:
No more the lark,--the linnet--sings,
But Silence sits in faded bowers.
There is a shadow on the plain
Of Winter ere he comes again,--
There is in woods a solemn sound
Of hollow warnings whisper'd round,
As Echo in her deep recess
For once had turn'd a prophetess.
Shuddering Autumn stops to list,
And breathes his fear in sudden sighs,
With clouded face, and hazel eyes
That quench themselves, and hide in mist.

Yes, Summer's gone like pageant bright;
Its glorious days of golden light
Are gone--the mimic suns that quiver,
Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river.
Gone the sweetly-scented breeze
That spoke in music to the trees;
Gone--for damp and chilly breath,
A...

Thomas Hood