The Snow-Blossoms

    But yestereve the winter trees
    Reared leafless, blackly bare,
    Their twigs and branches poignant-marked
    Upon the sunset-flare.

    White-petaled, opens now the dawn,
    And in its pallid glow,
    Revealed, each leaf-lorn, barren tree
    Stands white with flowers of snow.

Clark Ashton Smith

Clark Ashton Smith was an American writer and poet, best known for his contributions to the genres of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. He was a member of the Lovecraft Circle, a group of writers around H.P. Lovecraft. Smith's work was characterized by rich, fantastical imagery and vocabulary. He is considered one of the major writers of weird fiction and a key figure in early American speculative fiction.

Clark Ashton Smith

The Balance

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

A Sunset

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

The Winds

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

Copan

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The Cherry-Snows

    The cherry-snows are falling now;
    Down from the blossom-clouded sky
    Of zephyr-troubled twig and bough,
    In widely settling whirls they fly.

    The orchard earth, unclothed and brown,
    Is wintry-hued with petals bright;
    E'en as the snow they glimmer down;
    Brief as the snow's their stainless white.

Clark Ashton Smith

Snow-Drops

Dimly and dumbly under the ground,
Groping the walls of their prison round,
The roots of the aged and garrulous trees
Are sending electrical messages
    From the under-world to the world without
And quickening pulses that course in each
    Fettered and bound and frozen thing,
Rootlets that tremble, and fibres that reach
    Are pushing inanimate fingers out,
To ask further inarticulate speech
        For tidings of Spring

And the fine invisible sprite which dwells
In cups and discs, in blossoms and bells,
Fleeter than Ariel's wing hath flown
Beyond this cloudy and frozen zone,
    To the summer land of the South,
Beyond those rugged sentinels
Which winter seta in the snow-capped hills,
    From the breath of whose cruel mouth,
Sighing, t...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Songs Of The Winter Days

    I.

    The sky has turned its heart away,
    The earth its sorrow found;
    The daisies turn from childhood's play,
    And creep into the ground.

    The earth is black and cold and hard;
    Thin films of dry white ice,
    Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred,
    The children's feet entice.

    Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned
    The winter in the land;
    With idle icicles adorned,
    That mill-wheel soon will stand.

    But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part,
    Is to let in the cold;
    We'll make a summer of the heart,
    And laugh at winter old.


    II.

    With vague dead gleam the morning white
    Comes through the window-panes;
    The clouds have fallen all the ni...

George MacDonald

Snows

Now the long-bearded chilly-fingered winter
Over the green fields sweeps his cloak and leaves
Its whiteness there. It caught on the wild trees,
Shook whiteness on the hedges and left bare
South-sloping corners and south-fronting smooth
Barks of tall beeches swaying 'neath their whiteness
So gently that the whiteness does not fall.
The ash copse shows all white between gray poles,
The oaks spread arms to catch the wandering snow.
But the yews--I wondered to see their dark all white,
To see the soft flakes fallen on those grave deeps,
Lying there, not burnt up by the yews' slow fire.
Could Time so whiten all the trembling senses,
The youth, the fairness, the all-challenging strength,
And load even Love's grave deeps with his barren snows?
Even so. And what remains?

John Frederick Freeman

A Sleet-Storm In May

On southern winds shot through with amber light,
Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white,
The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills,
Waking the crocus and the daffodils.
O'er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh
The maples sang and flung their banners high,
Their crimson-tasselled pennons, and the elm
Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.
Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves,
Under the forest's myriad naked eaves,
Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,
Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew.
With timid tread adown the barren wood
Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood
White-mantled Winter wagging his white head,
Stormy his brow and stormily he said:
'The God of Terror, and the King of Storm,
Must I remin...

Madison Julius Cawein

The White Evening.

From gray, bleak hills 'neath steely skies
Thro' beards of ice the forests roar;
Along the river's humming shore
The skimming skater bird-like flies.

On windy meads where wave white breaks,
Where fettered briers' glist'ning hands
Reach to the cold moon's ghastly lands,
Hoots the lorn owl, and crouching quakes.

With frowsy snow blanched is the world;
Stiff sweeps the wind thro' murmuring pines,
Then fiend-like deep-entangled whines
Thro' the dead oak, that vagrant twirled

Phantoms the cliff o'er the wild wold:
Ghost-vested willows rim the stream,
Low hang lank limbs where in a dream
The houseless hare leaps o'er the cold

On snow-tressed crags that twinkling flash,
Like champions mailed for clanking war,
Glares down large Phosph...

Madison Julius Cawein