Winter.

With my breath so keen and chilling,
    I have stripped the branches bare;
And my snow-flakes white are filling,
    Feather-like, the frosty air.

Coming o'er the lofty mountains,
    There I left a robe of white;
I have locked the sparkling fountains,
    I have chained the river bright.

O'er the quiet valley winging,
    There I left my traces, too;
Hark! the merry sleigh-bells ringing,
    With their music call on you.

I have come! The school-boy shouting,
    Joyfully brings out his sled;
He has seen me, nothing doubting,
    As across the fields he sped.

I have come; but shall I find you
    Better than the former year?
If you've cast your faults behind you,
    I shall gladly greet you here.

H. P. Nichols

No biography available

H. P. Nichols

The Fishers.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The Meddlesome Child.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

I Must Not Be Selfish.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Sunday.

H. P. Nichols, 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.

Spring.

I am coming, I am coming,
    With my carpet soft and green;
I have spread it o'er the common,
    And a prettier ne'er was seen.

Soon I'll spangle it with clover,
    And the dandelions bright;
You shall pick them in your aprons,
    Yellow, red, and snowy white.

I am coming, and the tree-tops,
    That all winter were so bare,
You shall see, with small leaves covered,
    Wave their branches in the air.

I am coming! Little children,
    Can you tell me who am I?
If not, you will soon remember,
    For I'm just now passing by.

H. P. Nichols

Autumn And Winter.

I.

Beautiful Autumn is dead and gone -
                Weep for her!
Calm, and gracious, and very fair,
With sunny robe and with shining hair,
And a tender light in her dreamy eye,
She came to earth but to smile and die -
                Weep for her!

Nay, nay, I will not weep!
        She came with a smile,
        And tarried awhile,
    Quieting Nature to sleep; -
        Then went on her way
        O'er the hill-tops grey,
And yet - and yet, she is dead, you say!
Nay! - she brought us blessings, and left us cheer,
And alive and well shell return next year! -
            Why should I weep?


II.

Desolate Winter has come again -
                Frown on him!
    He comes with a withering breath,

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Winter In Canada.

Nay tell me not that, with shivering fear,
You shrink from the thought of wintering here;
That the cold intense of our winter-time
Is severe as that of Siberian clime,
And, if wishes could waft you across the sea,
You, to-night, in your English home would be.

Remember, no hedges there now are bright
With verdure, or blossoms of hawthorn white;
In damp, sodden fields or bare garden beds
No daisies or cowslips show their heads;
Whilst chill winds and skies of gloomy hue
Tell in England, as elsewhere, 'tis winter too.

Away with dull thoughts! Raise your brooding eyes
To yonder unclouded azure skies;
Look round on the earth, robed in bridal white,
All glittering and flashing with diamonds bright,
While o'er head, her lover and lord, the sun,
Shine...

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

A Winter Night.

The winter wind is raving fierce and shrill,
    And chides with angry moan the frosty skies;
    The white stars gaze with sleepless Gorgon eyes
That freeze the earth in terror fixed and still.
We reck not of the wild night's gloom and chill,
    Housed from its rage, dear friend; and fancy flies,
    Lured by the hand of beckoning memories,
Back to those summer evenings on the hill
Where we together watched the sun go down
    Beyond the gold-washed uplands, while his fires
    Touched into glittering life the vanes and spires
Piercing the purpling mists that veiled the town.
    The wintry night thy voice and eyes beguile,
    Till wake the sleeping summers in thy smile.

John Hay

Winter.

The small wind whispers through the leafless hedge
Most sharp and chill, where the light snowy flakes
Rest on each twig and spike of wither'd sedge,
Resembling scatter'd feathers;--vainly breaks
The pale split sunbeam through the frowning cloud,
On Winter's frowns below--from day to day
Unmelted still he spreads his hoary shroud,
In dithering pride on the pale traveller's way,
Who, croodling, hastens from the storm behind
Fast gathering deep and black, again to find
His cottage-fire and corner's sheltering bounds;
Where, haply, such uncomfortable days
Make musical the wood-sap's frizzling sounds,
And hoarse loud bellows puffing up the blaze.

John Clare