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SandraFowler

TheWorldIsWinter

Today the world... Landscaped in pen and ink by hidden hands Is winter and embossed in white on white, The sky cries down its tears upon the earth. Black angled trees... An onyx labyrinth twists down the wind Until the ground is rippled white brocade bemeath a shifting candleflame of sun. And we ourselves... Embracing on the creek, like figurines Skate out across a polished mirror of ice Its edges rough and ridged like hobnailed glass.

winter

WaltWhitman

ToALocomotiveInWinter

THEE for my recitative! Thee in the driving storm, even as now--the snow--the winter-day declining; Thee in thy panoply, thy measured dual throbbing, and thy beat convulsive; Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel; Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides; Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar--now tapering in the distance; Thy great protruding head-light, fix'd in front; Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple; The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack; Thy knitted frame--thy springs and valves--the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels; 10 Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily-following, Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering: Type of the modern! emblem of motion and power! pulse of the continent! For once, come serve the Muse, and merge in verse, even as here I see thee, With storm, and buffeting gusts of wind, and falling snow; By day, thy warning, ringing bell to sound its notes, By night, thy silent signal lamps to swing. Fierce-throated beauty! Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night; Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all! 20 Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding; (No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,) Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return'd, Launch'd o'er the prairies wide--across the lakes, To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong.

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RobertGraves

ToJuanAtTheWinterSolstice

There is one story and one story only That will prove worth your telling, Whether as learned bard or gifted child; To it all lines or lesser gauds belong That startle with their shining Such common stories as they stray into. Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues, Or strange beasts that beset you, Of birds that croak at you the Triple will? Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turns Below the Boreal Crown, Prison to all true kings that ever reigned? Water to water, ark again to ark, From woman back to woman: So each new victim treads unfalteringly The never altered circuit of his fate, Bringing twelve peers as witness Both to his starry rise and starry fall. Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty, All fish below the thighs? She in her left hand bears a leafy quince; When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling, How many the King hold back? Royally then he barters life for love. Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched, Whose coils contain the ocean, Into whose chops with naked sword he springs, Then in black water, tangled by the reeds, Battles three days and nights, To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore? Much snow is falling, winds roar hollowly, The owl hoots from the elder, Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup: Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward. The log groans and confesses: There is one story and one story only. Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling, Do not forget what flowers The great boar trampled down in ivy time. Her brow was creamy as the crested wave, Her sea-blue eyes were wild But nothing promised that is not performed.

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ClaudeMcKay

ToWinter

Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows! There is a subtle sweetness in the sun, The ripples on the stream's breast gaily run, The wind more boisterously by me blows, And each succeeding day now longer grows. The birds a gladder music have begun, The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun, From maples' topmost branch the brown twig throws. I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean: I know that thou art making ready to go. Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green Always, and palms wave gently to and fro, And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen, To ease my heart of its impassioned woe.

winter

EugeneONeill

ToWinter

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind." Away from here, And I shall greet thy passing breath Without a tear. I do not love thy snow and sleet Or icy flows; When I must jump or stamp to warm My freezing toes. For why should I be happy or E'en be merry, In weather only fitted for Cook or Peary. My eyes are red, my lips are blue My ears frost bitt'n; Thy numbing kiss doth e'en extend Thro' my mitten. I am cold, no matter how I warm Or clothe me; O Winter, greater bards have sung I loathe thee!

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WilliamBlake

ToWinter

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.' He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathèd In ribbèd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world. Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and in his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.

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ThomasHardy

WinterInDurnoverField

Scene.--A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with wheat, and frozen to iron hardness. Three large birds walking about thereon, and wistfully eyeing the surface. Wind keen from north-east: sky a dull grey. (Triolet) Rook.--Throughout the field I find no grain; The cruel frost encrusts the cornland! Starling.--Aye: patient pecking now is vain Throughout the field, I find . . . Rook.--No grain! Pigeon.--Nor will be, comrade, till it rain, Or genial thawings loose the lorn land Throughout the field. Rook.--I find no grain: The cruel frost encrusts the cornland!

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TimothySteele

TowardTheWinterSolstice

Although the roof is just a story high, It dizzies me a little to look down. I lariat-twirl the rope of Christmas lights And cast it to the weeping birch's crown; A dowel into which I've screwed a hook Enables me to reach,lift,drape,and twine The cord among the boughs so that the bulbs Will accent the tree's elegant design. Friends, passing home from work or shopping, pause And call up commendations or critiques. I make adjustments. Though a potpourri Of Muslims,Christians,Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs, We all are conscious of the time of year; We all enjoy its colorful displays And keep some festival that mitigates The dwindling warmth and compass of the days. Some say that L.A. doesn't suit the Yule, But UPS vans now like magi make Their present-laden rounds, while fallen leaves Are gaily resurrected in their wake; The desert lifts a full moon from the east And issues a dry Santa Ana breeze, And valets at chic restaurants will soon Be tending flocks of cars and SUV's. And as the neighborhoods sink into dusk The fan palms scattered all across town stand More calmly prominent, and this place seems A vast oasis in the Holy Land. This house might be a caravansary, The tree a kind of cordial fountainhead Of welcome, looped and decked with necklaces And ceintures of green,yellow,blue,and red. Some wonder if the star of Bethlehem Occurred when Jupiter and Saturn crossed; It's comforting to look up from this roof And feel that, while all changes, nothing's lost, To recollect that in antiquity The winter solstice fell in Capricorn And that, in the Orion Nebula, From swirling gas, new stars are being born.

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AlfredEdwardHousman

TwiceAWeekTheWinterThorough

Twice a week the winter thorough Here stood I to keep the goal: Football then was fighting sorrow For the young man's soul. Now in Maytime to the wicket Out I march with bat and pad: See the son of grief at cricket Trying to be glad. Try I will; no harm in trying: Wonder 'tis how little mirth Keeps the bones of man from lying On the bed of earth.

winter

MatsuoBasho

WhenTheWinterChrysanthemumsGo

When the winter chrysanthemums go, there's nothing to write about but radishes. Translated by Robert Hass

winter

RobertBurns

WinterADirge

The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here firm I rest; they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want-O do Thou grant This one request of mine!- Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.

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OgdenNash

WinterComplaint

Now when I have a cold I am careful with my cold, I consult a physician And I do as I am told. I muffle up my torso In woolly woolly garb, And I quaff great flagons Of sodium bicarb. I munch on aspirin, I lunch on water, And I wouldn’t dream of osculating Anybody’s daughter, And to anybody’s son I wouldn’t say howdy, For I am a sufferer Magna cum laude. I don’t like germs, But I’ll keep the germs I’ve got. Will I take a chance of spreading them? Definitely not. I sneeze out the window And I cough up the flue, And I live like a hermit Till the germs get through. And because I’m considerate, Because I’m wary, I am treated by my friends Like Typhoid Mary. Now when you have a cold You are careless with your cold, You are cocky as a gangster Who has just been paroled. You ignore your physician, You eat steaks and oxtails, You stuff yourself with starches, You drink lots of cocktails, And you claim that gargling Is a time of waste, And you won’t take soda For you don’t like the taste, And you prowl around parties Full of selfish bliss, And greet your hostess With a genial kiss. You convert yourself Into a deadly missle, You exhale Hello’s Like a steamboat wistle. You sneeze in the subway And you cough at dances, And let everybody else Take their own good chances. You’re a bronchial boor, A bacterial blighter, And you get more invitations Than a gossip writer. Yes, your throat is froggy, And your eyes are swimmy, And you hand is clammy, And you nose is brimmy, But you woo my girls And their hearts you jimmy While I sit here With the cold you gimmy.

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WalterdelaMare

WinterDusk

Dark frost was in the air without, The dusk was still with cold and gloom, When less than even a shadow came And stood within the room. But the three around the fire, None turned a questioning head to look, Still read a clear voice, on and on, Still stooped they o'er their book. The children watched their mother's eyes Moving on softly line to line; It seemed to listen too -- that shade, Yet made no outward sign. The fire-flames crooned a tiny song, No cold wind moved the wintry tree; The children both in Faerie dreamed Beside their mother's knee. And nearer yet that spirit drew Above that heedless one, intent Only on what the simple words Of her small story meant. No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, No memory her bosom stirred, Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, 'Twas surely three who heard. Yet when, the story done, she smiled From face to face, serene and clear, A love, half dead, sprang up, as she Leaned close and drew them near.

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ArchibaldLampman

WinterEvening

To-night the very horses springing by Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream The streets that narrow to the westward gleam Like rows of golden palaces; and high From all the crowded chimneys tower and die A thousand aureoles. Down in the west The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest, One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel A mightier master; soon from height to height, With silence and the sharp unpitying stars, Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel, Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars, Glittering and still shall come the awful night.

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GeorgTrakl

WinterEvening

When snow falls against the window, Long sounds the evening bell... For so many has the table Been prepared, the house set in order. From their wandering, many Come on dark paths to this gateway. The tree of grace is flowering in gold Out of the cool sap of the earth. In stillness, wanderer, step in: Grief has worn the threshold into stone. But see: in pure light, glowing There on the table: bread and wine.

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MatsuoBasho

WinterGarden

Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing. Translated by Robert Hass

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GeorgeMeredith

WinterHeavens

Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. It is a night to make the heavens our home More than the nest whereto apace we strive. Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, In swarms outrushing from the golden comb. They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam: The living throb in me, the dead revive. Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath, Life glistens on the river of the death. It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt, Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs Of radiance, the radiance enrings: And this is the soul's haven to have felt.

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ClaudeMcKay

WinterInTheCountry

Sweet life! how lovely to be here And feel the soft sea-laden breeze Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair Free limbs to see, the lesser trees' Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep To heed, and watch his nimble flight Above the short brown grass asleep. Love glorious in his friendly might, Music that every heart could bless, And thoughts of life serene, divine, Beyond my power to express, Crowd round this lifted heart of mine! But oh! to leave this paradise For the city's dirty basement room, Where, beauty hidden from the eyes, A table, bed, bureau, and broom In corner set, two crippled chairs All covered up with dust and grim With hideousness and scars of years, And gaslight burning weird and dim, Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet This very wind, the winter birds The glory of the soft sunset, Come there to me in words.

winter

JohannWolfgangvonGoethe

WinterJourneyOverTheHartzMountain

LIKE the vulture Who on heavy morning clouds With gentle wing reposing Looks for his prey,-- Hover, my song! For a God hath Unto each prescribed His destined path, Which the happy one Runs o'er swiftly To his glad goal: He whose heart cruel Fate hath contracted, Struggles but vainly Against all the barriers The brazen thread raises, But which the harsh shears Must one day sever. Through gloomy thickets Presseth the wild deer on, And with the sparrows Long have the wealthy Settled themselves in the marsh. Easy 'tis following the chariot That by Fortune is driven, Like the baggage that moves Over well-mended highways After the train of a prince. But who stands there apart? In the thicket, lost is his path; Behind him the bushes Are closing together, The grass springs up again, The desert engulphs him. Ah, who'll heal his afflictions, To whom balsam was poison, Who, from love's fullness, Drank in misanthropy only? First despised, and now a despiser, He, in secret, wasteth All that he is worth, In a selfishness vain. If there be, on thy psaltery, Father of Love, but one tone That to his ear may be pleasing, Oh, then, quicken his heart! Clear his cloud-enveloped eyes Over the thousand fountains Close by the thirsty one In the desert. Thou who createst much joy, For each a measure o'erflowing, Bless the sons of the chase When on the track of the prey, With a wild thirsting for blood, Youthful and joyous Avenging late the injustice Which the peasant resisted Vainly for years with his staff. But the lonely one veil Within thy gold clouds! Surround with winter-green, Until the roses bloom again, The humid locks, Oh Love, of thy minstrel! With thy glimmering torch Lightest thou him Through the fords when 'tis night, Over bottomless places On desert-like plains; With the thousand colours of morning Gladd'nest his bosom; With the fierce-biting storm Bearest him proudly on high; Winter torrents rush from the cliffs,-- Blend with his psalms; An altar of grateful delight He finds in the much-dreaded mountain's Snow-begirded summit, Which foreboding nations Crown'd with spirit-dances. Thou stand'st with breast inscrutable, Mysteriously disclosed, High o'er the wondering world, And look'st from clouds Upon its realms and its majesty, Which thou from the veins of thy brethren Near thee dost water.

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HenryDavidThoreau

WinterMemories

Within the circuit of this plodding life There enter moments of an azure hue, Untarnished fair as is the violet Or anemone, when the spring stew them By some meandering rivulet, which make The best philosophy untrue that aims But to console man for his grievences. I have remembered when the winter came, High in my chamber in the frosty nights, When in the still light of the cheerful moon, On the every twig and rail and jutting spout, The icy spears were adding to their length Against the arrows of the coming sun, How in the shimmering noon of winter past Some unrecorded beam slanted across The upland pastures where the Johnwort grew; Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind, The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill, Which now through all its course stands still and dumb Its own memorial, - purling at its play Along the slopes, and through the meadows next, Until its youthful sound was hushed at last In the staid current of the lowland stream; Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned, And where the fieldfare followed in the rear, When all the fields around lay bound and hoar Beneath a thick integument of snow. So by God's cheap economy made rich To go upon my winter's task again.

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WilliamJaySmith

WinterMorning

All night the wind swept over the house And through our dream Swirling the snow up through the pines, Ruffling the white, ice-capped clapboards, Rattling the windows, Rustling around and below our bed So that we rode Over wild water In a white ship breasting the waves. We rode through the night On green, marbled Water, and, half-waking, watched The white, eroded peaks of icebergs Sail past our windows; Rode out the night in that north country, And awoke, the house buried in snow, Perched on a Chill promontory, a Giant's tooth In the mouth of the cold valley, Its white tongue looped frozen around us, The trunks of tall birches Revealing the rib cage of a whale Stranded by a still stream; And saw, through the motionless baleen of their branches, As if through time, Light that shone On a landscape of ivory, A harbor of bone.

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ChristinaGeorginaRossetti

WinterMySecret

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not today; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell. Or, after all, perhaps there's none: Suppose there is no secret after all, But only just my fun. Today's a nipping day, a biting day; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps: I cannot ope to every one who taps, And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows? You would not peck? I thank you for good will, Believe, but leave that truth untested still. Spring's and expansive time: yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust, Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours. Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess, If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or you may guess.

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BorisPasternak

WinterNight

It snowed and snowed ,the whole world over, Snow swept the world from end to end. A candle burned on the table; A candle burned. As during summer midges swarm To beat their wings against a flame Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed To beat against the window pane The blizzard sculptured on the glass Designs of arrows and of whorls. A candle burned on the table; A candle burned. Distorted shadows fell Upon the lighted ceiling: Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs- Of crossed destiny. Two tiny shoes fell to the floor And thudded. A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears Upon a dress. All things vanished within The snowy murk-white,hoary. A candle burned on the table; A candle burned. A corner draft fluttered the flame And the white fever of temptation Upswept its angel wings that cast A cruciform shadow It snowed hard throughout the month Of February, and almost constantly A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.

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AdrianWait

WinterNights

What is this feeling within my heart; Concealed by daylight hours, in a shroud of taut restraint. Winter evenings consume, yesterdays pursue me, Smiling, speaking, acting – I can cope, I can cope…. An injured heart bares healing in the nearness of love, Yet love becomes frigid when winter sweeps in, I am alone. The world is cold, my heart laments in fearful silence Winter, winter, where are your friends? , Betrayed by the sheath of night, rejoicing in decay In scornful silence, reflecting on unfulfilled dreams, Dreading the night, enduring the day. Winter. Hopes and Dreams, rest upon a cradle of love, Unconditional, fruitful, forbearing, eternal, Winter steals, freezes, and denies. To be alone in this season, is to be alone, No voices, no echoes, no gentle memories shared. A solitary tree yielding to an unfeeling winter, Surrendering its leaves to winters steel sky. Fleeting Sunshine, stolen, lacking of kindness, or warmth Sheets of invasive rain, such unforgiving indifference Winter is reconciliation without forgiveness Yet, it is the door to Spring, and the resurrection of hope.

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KumarmaniMahakul

WinterOhDearWinter

Winter! Oh dear our sweet winter, You are our only lovely time hinter. We wait for you again waking soon, Sun rays fall we do get warm boon. Even at noon we search a blanket, Some feel happy some wear jacket. Basket brings a little girl for flower, She moves toward Church's tower. Some burn candle and do get light, Few get fun watching weather's fight. Might is father he stays in heaven, He has made Nature in colours seven. Christmas and New Year come here, Oh winter you fill us sure in cheer. You are also one cute sweet season, You come near us with new reason. Vision we spread over fog and mist, Oh dear winter you do write our list. By touch of mist shines the splinter, Winter! Oh dear our sweet winter.

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ErhardHansJosefLang

AndTheGodsMayWorkTheirMagicOutEvenWithTheMantraLost

Hair-raising novelty; Unbelievable story. Yet something truly experienced. In India all of them were all ears, When I once fell into recounting the story to men by the roadside, Clad in pure white, who became Visibly quite amused and elated by such foreign freelance reports from Their world of heavenly Hindu earth. Came home once, 'twas a good year, from downtown, there Where I'd been living for long way far out East, Came home once with some sheets of mystical-scientific papers Under my arm, Completely new to me, It happened to be on my mother's birthday, Extramundane instructions of indeed one of a kind, Matters from on high, pertaining to Goddesses' royal worships and their ritualistic aspects, High-lighted and exposed in ornamental details for the Advanced regal audience of initiated followership. One full length of a page, with most diverse mantras on it; All dedicated to and given by Great Lady Time, Mother Mahakali - Greatest Being of a cosmic Damsel spirit Middling between World terror and world harmony. Different mantras, different powers, different effects. Hoary magic knowledge, derived from the knowledge about cosmic mind. 'And if your concentration and meditation was well-focused And the practitioner's attitude beneficial to the world All along the application of the mantra, Any reward might in due time turn in.' Understandable point! But then there was one mantra with a terrific, An almost unbelievable claim: '... This is a wish-fulfilling magic rhyme that will make Any desire formed in mind Come true to its chanter Instantaneously! Instantaneously? In a second! Oh, what a high claim! 'This must be a truly most secret mantra! ' 'Would I want to test and apply it? ' ('Thou shalt not put the Gods to test! ! ') 'What would I possibly want to wish for at this moment, If I were to apply the instantly fulfilling magic rhyme? ' 'Everyone's healthy at home, Of needed things there's actually nothing lacking for the moment - But only, maybe, for one thing: A herbal gift package for an inspirational matinee Through the verdant hands of friendly Shaktigurunathan Hadn't found its way for long to This house of enjoyment.' After thinking thus poetically, and perusing for once the mantra, There was a knock on my room door: It was by one of my close ones: 'My love, there's someone at the gate for you, A man who wants to speak to you.' 'Tell him to step in. Who is he? ' Had been a former neighbour boy, Who helped us carry things When we moved to the other house, Whom I hadn't seen for many years. 'I have something to offer to you, it is of best quality And it's rather cheap, I thought of you, you might want it.' There it was, the very thing I had thought of, when Trying to think of anything for a Desire in my mind, Before reading that mantra of quickest promise. It really had fulfilled itself in an instant, Its claim returned in a second! Overwhelming. It got me into making the mistake of letting it out and The boy know about it, who In an unguarded moment while inside my house Must have stolen the sheet with the precious mantras on. Later on I've never seen the magic paper anymore, From then on, it was simply gone. And so was the boy with whom the paper went. Soon after he was rumoured about as having Gotten himself into some bad trouble. Then I could well understand why. To-day I have downloaded from the net And installed for display, To my own gratification as the good gadget's user, Into the small upper window of the main Menue on my mobile phone A new operator logo, That says in classic hand-writing, Written in light red: 'Bestfriend', And fits perfectly into the pre-given space, Cutting a nice figure within the set. Yet, before this 'Bestfriend' was granted to successfully lock in With my unit to be lodged here with me, Some hard-headed ethereal signal inhibition was Yet hampering the finalization of the download act, and It was that first a real one-time bestfriend, Someone whom for long I hadn't heard of, Chanced to have wanted to make a Courtesy call for once again Inquiring about my well-fare. A short call only for decency's sake Which rendered both of us all the happier. And then only it was, A few moments after that call that I was allowed to accomplish the started download, thus From that moment only onward now Having the word 'Bestfriend' glittering on the topside of this toy boy, My mental compost catering fawn. With the Gods, so it seems, An instant fulfillment of a desire, and be it a latent one, May, if whenever and with whomsoever They haven chosen to make it happen, Indeed, come true, and be it in a short Instant, Even if there hadn't been any secret mantras known. To make oneself worthy of being given once in a while Some sudden and deeper joy, like as if From higher Angelic spheres, There maybe it is where our 'true secrets' lie.

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RobertSouthey

Winter

A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee, Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey As the long moss upon the apple-tree; Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose, Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.

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WalterdelaMare

Winter

Clouded with snow The cold winds blow, And shrill on leafless bough The robin with its burning breast Alone sings now. The rayless sun, Day's journey done, Sheds its last ebbing light On fields in leagues of beauty spread Unearthly white. Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon Over that sea of frozen foam Floats the white moon.

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WilliamMorris

Winter

I am Winter, that do keep Longing safe amidst of sleep: Who shall say if I were dead What should be remembered?

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WilliamShakespeare

Winter

When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When Blood is nipped and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

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MargePiercy

WinterPromises

Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby's buttocks, eggplants glossy as waxed fenders, purple neon flawless glistening peppers, pole beans fecund and fast growing as Jack's Viagra-sped stalk, big as truck tire zinnias that mildew will never wilt, roses weighing down a bush never touched by black spot, brave little fruit trees shouldering up their spotless ornaments of glass fruit: I lie on the couch under a blanket of seed catalogs ordering far too much. Sleet slides down the windows, a wind edged with ice knifes through every crack. Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers: I want to believe every promise, to trust in five pound tomatoes and dahlias brighter than the sun that was eaten by frost last week.

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JohnCroweRansom

WinterRemembered

Two evils, monstrous either one apart, Possessed me, and were long and loath at going: A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart, And in the wood the furious winter blowing. Think not, when fire was bright upon my bricks, And past the tight boards hardly a wind could enter, I glowed like them, the simple burning sticks, Far from my cause, my proper heat and center. Better to walk forth in the frozen air And wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing; Because my heart would throb less painful there, Being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling. And where I walked, the murderous winter blast Would have this body bowed, these eyeballs streaming, And though I think this heart's blood froze not fast It ran too small to spare one drop for dreaming. Dear love, these fingers that had known your touch, And tied our separate forces first together, Were ten poor idiot fingers not worth much, Ten frozen parsnips hanging in the weather.

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ElinorMortonWylie

WinterSleep

When against earth a wooden heel Clicks as loud as stone on steel, When stone turns flour instead of flakes, And frost bakes clay as fire bakes, When the hard-bitten fields at last Crack like iron flawed in the cast, When the world is wicked and cross and old, I long to be quit of the cruel cold. Little birds like bubbles of glass Fly to other Americas, Birds as bright as sparkles of wine Fly in the nite to the Argentine, Birds of azure and flame-birds go To the tropical Gulf of Mexico: They chase the sun, they follow the heat, It is sweet in their bones, O sweet, sweet, sweet! It's not with them that I'd love to be, But under the roots of the balsam tree. Just as the spiniest chestnut-burr Is lined within with the finest fur, So the stoney-walled, snow-roofed house Of every squirrel and mole and mouse Is lined with thistledown, sea-gull's feather, Velvet mullein-leaf, heaped together With balsam and juniper, dry and curled, Sweeter than anything else in the world. O what a warm and darksome nest Where the wildest things are hidden to rest! It's there that I'd love to lie and sleep, Soft, soft, soft, and deep, deep, deep!

winter

ArchibaldLampman

WinterSolitude

I saw the city's towers on a luminous pale-gray sky; Beyond them a hill of the softest mistiest green, With naught but frost and the coming of night between, And a long thin cloud above the colour of August rye. I sat in the midst of a plain on my snowshoes with bended knee Where the thin wind stung my cheeks, And the hard snow ran in little ripples and peaks, Like the fretted floor of a white and petrified sea. And a strange peace gathered about my soul and shone, As I sat reflecting there, In a world so mystically fair, So deathly silent--I so utterly alone.

winter

MatsuoBasho

WinterSolitude

Winter solitude-- in a world of one color the sound of wind. Translated by Robert Hass

winter

Anonymous

WinterSolstice

When you startle awake in the dark morning heart pounding breathing fast sitting bolt upright staring into dark whirlpool black hole feeling its suction Get out of bed knock at the door of your nearest friend ask to lie down ask to be held Listen while whispered words turn the hole into deep night sky stars close together winter moon rising over white fields nearby wren rustling dry leaves distant owl echoing two people walking up the road laughing Let your soul laugh let your heart sigh out that long held breath so hollow in your stomach so swollen in your throat Already light is returning pairs of wings lift softly off your eyelids one by one each feathered edge clearer between you and the pearl veil of day You have nothing to do but live

winter

KatherineMansfield

WinterSong

Rain and wind, and wind and rain. Will the Summer come again? Rain on houses, on the street, Wetting all the people's feet, Though they run with might and main. Rain and wind, and wind and rain. Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow. Will the Winter never go? What do beggar children do With no fire to cuddle to, P'raps with nowhere warm to go? Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow. Hail and ice, and ice and hail, Water frozen in the pail. See the robins, brown and red, They are waiting to be fed. Poor dears, battling in the gale! Hail and ice, and ice and hail.

winter

WilfredOwen

WinterSong

The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed, Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed. From off your face, into the winds of winter, The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter, When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.

winter

CharlotteBront├л

WinterStores

WE take from life one little share, And say that this shall be A space, redeemed from toil and care, From tears and sadness free. And, haply, Death unstrings his bow And Sorrow stands apart, And, for a little while, we know The sunshine of the heart. Existence seems a summer eve, Warm, soft, and full of peace; Our free, unfettered feelings give The soul its full release. A moment, then, it takes the power, To call up thoughts that throw Around that charmed and hallowed hour, This life's divinest glow. But Time, though viewlessly it flies, And slowly, will not stay; Alike, through clear and clouded skies, It cleaves its silent way. Alike the bitter cup of grief, Alike the draught of bliss, Its progress leaves but moment brief For baffled lips to kiss. The sparkling draught is dried away, The hour of rest is gone, And urgent voices, round us, say, ' Ho, lingerer, hasten on !' And has the soul, then, only gained, From this brief time of ease, A moment's rest, when overstrained, One hurried glimpse of peace ? No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us, And flowers bloomed round our feet,­ While many a bud of joy before us Unclosed its petals sweet,­ An unseen work within was plying; Like honey-seeking bee, From flower to flower, unwearied, flying, Laboured one faculty,­ Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow, Its gloom and scarcity; Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow, Toiled quiet Memory. 'Tis she that from each transient pleasure Extracts a lasting good; 'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure To serve for winter's food. And when Youth's summer day is vanished, And Age brings Winter's stress, Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished, Life's evening hours will bless.

winter

RobertLouisStevenson

WinterTime

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again. Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress. Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door. When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose. Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding cake.

winter

WilliamCarlosWilliams

WinterTrees

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among the long branches. Thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold.

winter

ArchibaldLampman

WinterUplands

The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek, The loneliness of this forsaken ground, The long white drift upon whose powdered peak I sit in the great silence as one bound; The rippled sheet of snow where the wind blew Across the open fields for miles ahead; The far-off city towered and roofed in blue A tender line upon the western red; The stars that singly, then in flocks appear, Like jets of silver from the violet dome, So wonderful, so many and so near, And then the golden moon to light me home-- The crunching snowshoes and the stinging air, And silence, frost, and beauty everywhere.

winter

SamuelEarle

WinterWinter

Winter, winter, winter, When are you going away. I love it when you snow, but i hate it when you stay. At first i start to play, until the end of day. But when the snow gets hard, I wish you go away.

winter

JosephTRenaldi

WinterWonderland

There are strange and mysterious sounds When the winds of winter blow, The long nights are crystal clear and cold, And the fields and meadows are covered with snow. The stars are frosty against the sky, And the wind's whistle is shrill, As the snow blows against the house And drifts against the hill. Yet, I like to see during the winter A white carpet on the ground, To plod aimlessly in the deep snow, where deer tracks abound. I like to feel the stillness Of a crisp winter's night, Watching a full moon rise over the horizon, Exposing a winter wonderland beautiful and bright.

winter

HenryWadsworthLongfellow

WoodsInWinter

When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day! But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

winter

WilliamBarnes

ZummerAnWinter

When I led by zummer streams The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her, While the zun, wi' evenen beams, Did cast our sheades athirt the water; Winds a-blowen, Streams a-flowen, Skies a-glowen, Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten, Heightened it, that happy meeten. Then, when maid an' man took pleaces, Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances, Showen in their merry feaces Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances; Stars a-winken, Day a-shrinken, Sheades a-zinken, Brought anew the happy meeten, That did meake the night too fleeten.

winter

MichaelShepherd

0129ASketchOfThePoetAtWorkWcw

a happy man saying, life

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RishaAhmed12yrs

095Work

You don’t need to help me please You can go and sit in peace Because I will do my best And God will do the rest All my work is done And I’ll go have some fun Cause I have done my best And god will do the rest So shall I go and have some rest please And you can go and watch TV in ease.

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MaryNagy

3WillWorkForFood

I told my kids we'd see it, this movie, they couldn't wait. We finally saved the money so we started on our ''date''. They were so very happy to be on there way to see this show that they'd been saving for even more than me. Standing by the corner, he came into our view. He looked so very helpless that I knew what we should do. I tried to just look past him, to keep my spirits bright. But, then I looked in the rearview mirror and knew what would be right. The kids were looking also, they got quiet and so still. My son's eyes looked so heavy as they simply began to fill. He said ''Who needs a movie? There's good stuff on t.v.'' That's when I knew my kids would feel the pain of other's just like me. As we gave this man the money, he looked me in the eye. He blessed us all and watched us leave without saying goodbye. His blessing was well worth it, I felt it in my soul. I saw my kids' compassion shine and I've never felt so whole.

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RajaramRamachandran

A37SheWasGivenLightWork

“The whole world is watching How Sister Bernarde is living? Had she died, on us the blame Surely would’ve come.” “So, we should keep her Healthy and safe here, Let her duty be light Till she feels alright.” As a rebirth for her it was, The Bishop said like this. Taken out from the kitchen, Light work, she was given. She spent her time, In a spacious room, On works like paintings, And colorful drawings. She did them in perfection It was a center of attraction To every visiting personality Who praised her simplicity. One day a visitor came, Not announcing his name, With his long grey hair To meet and wish her. It took sometime for her, To recognize her father. She saw him very old He came there too tired. To see him, she was glad. She gave him nice food. About brothers and sister To hear, she was eager. He told, “We miss you But always remember you. By His grace, I’ve a mill That is running well.” “Your sister Marie has One boy and two girls And your two brothers Are my two helpers.” “To you, my dear child, So far, I haven’t been good Nor given you proper food From the days of childhood.” “No Papa, I never felt In my life like that. I was always happy. Now also, I’m happy.” “I’m sorry for mother Who loved me forever. Always I remember her. Now badly, I miss her.” Their feelings went thus. They talked for hours. When he left the place Tears filled her eyes.

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KenBennight

APoetsWorkIsNeverDone

Paragraphs, of words to be. Written down, to fill a need. Sentences, penned forth to read. Hung on walls, for all to see. Explanations, of the past. For the future, made to last. Little words, that make us dream. Fantasize, cry and scream. Delivered to us, in a grin, Read in ways, that chill the skin. Serious, but sometimes fun. A poets work is never done...

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TomJMariani

APoetsWorkIsNeverDone

What's keepng me From writing better poetry (Beyond not finding a word That rhymes with orange) I don't see myself as a poet No one has granted me a license I have however somehow Learned how to wheedle words Out of my head Onto a blank page I'll admit I have had to Kick them around a bit After they have landed Some had to be kicked out I was sad to see them go It was like having to fire Your cousin who just Wasn't carring his weight My additional problem is That whenever I pick up a page Of even my revised poetry The words are still moving Some are embarrased Asking to be replaced By better more appropriate ones Some adamately think that They should remain Just as they are Some are trying to jump From here To there For clarity So what's holding me back From better words and arrangements What's preventing a coup What's keeping them From breaking through the lines And taking over They know how much work It was to put them there They know I am reluctant To call them back Without having stronger replacemenets That's all that's holding me back

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FaySlimm

AWomansWork

They say it's never done. A woman's work. When, and how can we find fun Without shirking All the things there are to do? Here's a clue. Try to be aware of Gifts, hiding in Every dull and mundane job. When cooking - stop - Think, 'how does this vegetable FEEL' When peeling. Then, arranging flowers. Spare only one Moment, to see the powerful Colours, deeply Glowing with exciting sheen. Once we've seen Their beauty shining there Just for us, We can start to look elsewhere For other joys. The whiteness gleaming, through Folds of blowing clothes Drying on a line. When changing beds Bouncing up and down is fine For mothers too! And when cleaning floors why Not start to jive, Put music on and show That we're alive. Like all other things we flow With vibrant life. Try this satisfying way. Start today.

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RameshTA

AWorkDoneWell

They are happy because I have moved with them; They remember that today I spoke to them. The day has ended as the working time is over; Surely someone will say a kind word of me there. The day is going fast whether we know or not; But we have done the best we can in time tight. Certainly everyone is rejoicing over what is done; And everyone’s confidence is restored as it is fun. By involving all I have utilised the day without waste; I leave behind my mark in all the things I did fast. So, I can have a cool sleep even in the summer night With hope and confidence I have created in the work!

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MargePiercy

AWorkOfArtifice

The bonsai tree in the attractive pot could have grown eighty feet tall on the side of a mountain till split by lightning. But a gardener carefully pruned it. It is nine inches high. Every day as he whittles back the branches the gardener croons, It is your nature to be small and cozy, domestic and weak; how lucky, little tree, to have a pot to grow in. With living creatures one must begin very early to dwarf their growth: the bound feet, the crippled brain, the hair in curlers, the hands you love to touch.

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BobGotti

AllThingsWorkOut

All Things will indeed fall in place, for our God is a God of Grace. All fears God will erase away, giving you comfort along the way. Replacing the fear He does erase, with God’s peace in its place. Soon what seems so very new, will all be common place for you. The Grace God bestows on you, in His time will see you through. No matter what your heart may say, God will lead you all the way. As your emotion wells up inside, in Christ Jesus you must abide. For His Grace is sufficient friend, from the beginning to the end. What seems today to be concern, is just one more means to learn. God will help you to understand, the present task you have at hand. God puts you on unknown roads, sometimes with very heavy loads. God uses things you don’t know, within your world to help you grow. He works out tasks big and small; and God helps you when you fall. What seems to be a huge task, can shrink to nothing when you ask. Going to God on bended knees, will put your troubled heart at ease. Just ask God right where you are, for Christ, my friend, is never far. Friend, any time, any place, you can call upon His Awesome Grace. A Grace that reaches far and wide, filling you with His Peace inside. Just let Christ Jesus fill your heart, in each and every task you start. And all your fears shall melt away, as Christ is in your heart to stay. 08/2005

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WoodyGuthrie

AllWorkTogether

My mommy told me an' the teacher told me, too, There's all kinds of work that I can do: Dry my dishes, sweep my floor, But if we all work together it won't take very long. We all work together with a wiggle and a giggle, We all work together with a giggle and a grin. We all work together with a wiggle and a giggle, We all work together with a giggle and a grin. My sister told me, Brother told me, too, Lots an' lotsa work That I can do. I can bring her candy. Bring him gum. But if we all work together Hadn't oughtta take long. So My daddy said, And my grandpaw, too, There's work, worka, work For me to do. I can paint my fence. Mow my lawn. But if we all work together, Well, it shouldn't take long. So I tell Mama an' Daddy, Grampaw an' Granmaw, too, I tell my sister an' my brother, Lotsa work for you to do. You can bring me pennie And candy and gum; But if we all work together 'Twon't take so very long. And so We all work together with a wiggle and a giggle, We all work together with a giggle and a grin. We all work together with a wiggle and a giggle, We all work together with a giggle and a grin. With a wiggle and a giggle and a google and a goggle And a jigger and a jagger and a giggle and a grin.

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DavidTaylor

ArrivingAtWorkADayBegins

A glint of early morning sun reflected in the shiny waxed panels of the parked cars with blinding rays of light from the mirrored wings bursting star like on my eyes from a focal intensity only a pale shadow of the low lying god in my heaven which hung with unknown colour in a pale blue sky. The sole of my shoe crunched a gravel chipping as it pressed into the dry surface of the tarmac drive making a small mark in memory of my passing A butterfly with painted wings left its soft repose and dipped and rose upon the gentle blowing wind the same air that filled my body with breath and life.

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D├│nallDempsey

ArtistAtWork

I trace with trembling fingertip the naked caligraphy of your body my hands creating you out of this darkness so that dawn finds you drawn with such exquisite passion that it tells the sun to look: 'Look! ' And the sun reaching in the window can not help but touch to see if you are real. 'Hands off! ' I warn. 'She's mine! ' And the sun sulks as I cover you up my masterpiece and finally exhausted I ...fall asleep.

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SirPhilipSidney

AstrophelAndStellaViiWhennatureMadeHerChiefWork

When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes, In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright? Would she in beamy black, like painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light? Or did she else that sober hue devise, In object best to knit and strength our sight; Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise, They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight? Or would she her miraculous power show, That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary, She even in black doth make all beauties flow? Both so, and thus,--she, minding Love should be Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed To honour all their deaths who for her bleed.

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ChristineAustinCole

BodyOfWork

I’m well aware that they are laying poems out on slabs these days – dissecting them – dropping their heart, their mind, their guts into little dishes and putting their cells under a microscope. They scrape under fingernails for evidence and chart wounds, both long since sustained and newly acquired, on a diagram for future reference. They drain their blood and pump them full of something they say will preserve them, something as insanely unnatural as the exercise itself, only to then abandon them, alone, in the long dark night as if they never existed. My poems do not wish to be undressed and undone, poked and prodded, severed or sliced, only to be forgotten at the turning of a page. They want to fly, burn, breath, rage and urge from you the conversation we would not otherwise have had. They want your instinct, your humanity - understanding – and not the scalpel or the thin white gloves that keep us from actually touching. So, if I say the horse was just a horse, that the colors were randomly chosen or that I hung a moon in the middle of a poem for no particular reason at all, just let me have that – but don’t believe me. .

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ValeryYaklovichBryusov

CreativeWork

The shadow of uncreated creatures Flickers in sleep, Like palm fronds On an enamel wall. Violet hands On the enamel wall Drowsily sketch sounds In the ringing-resonant silence. And transparent kiosks, In the ringing-resonant silence, Grow like spangles In the azure moonlight. A naked moon rises In the azure moonlight... Sounds hover drowsily, Sounds caress me. The secrets of created creatures Caress me caressingly And palm shadows gutter On an enamel wall.

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NatashaTrethewey

DomesticWork1937

All week she's cleaned someone else's house, stared down her own face in the shine of copper-- bottomed pots, polished wood, toilets she'd pull the lid to--that look saying Let's make a change, girl. But Sunday mornings are hers-- church clothes starched and hanging, a record spinning on the console, the whole house dancing. She raises the shades, washes the rooms in light, buckets of water, Octagon soap. Cleanliness is next to godliness ... Windows and doors flung wide, curtains two-stepping forward and back, neck bones bumping in the pot, a choir of clothes clapping on the line. Nearer my God to Thee ... She beats time on the rugs, blows dust from the broom like dandelion spores, each one a wish for something better.

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MaryHavran

DreamWork

Though I have only experimented with it briefly, I am a believer in ‘Lucid Dreaming’ Do you ever create poetry in your dreams? Or do you perhaps compose music? Do you solve complex problems? Or have you ever thought up a joke? I have done all of the above and of course many more entertaining things. Dreams amaze and delight me. Do you remember your dreams? I often do and one morning woke up with this small poem in complete form. It is not the greatest poem, but I was amazed nonetheless. I will share it now below: Dream Work As sure as I am shooting As far as I can tell All things of worth Persist in dreams So make them serve you well.

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RameshTA

DutyAndWork

Sun rises and sets everyday; Moon rises and sets everyday; Plough man ploughs the field; Poets love to compose poems! Some love to do duty well; But many do only for profit. How duty has to be done? What do duty, work mean? Duty is done expecting none; Work is done expecting some. Duty and work all have to do; But duty, works are different! Duty is life work for everyone; Work is done to live life here!

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MargaretAlice

FiveMinutesOfWork4232009

Attending the PMDS workshop today a 46-page page performance document to be discussed in detail, I opened it and closed it immediately, more boring than that can’t exist in any universe, I’ll go to the meeting hoping to enjoy the conversation, the facial expressions of my colleagues; but not in order to be man-handled again by Human Resources whose insanity is rampant and getting worse every day, we do five minutes of work for every fifty-page document delineating how the work should be done, we have a new form on which clients must fill in what they thought of our performance - strangely enough not a single client made use of it as yet; I wonder why, given how joyously we compile forms, isn’t it?

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AlisonLuterman

InvisibleWork

Because no one could ever praise me enough, because I don't mean these poems only but the unseen unbelievable effort it takes to live the life that goes on between them, I think all the time about invisible work. About the young mother on Welfare I interviewed years ago, who said, "It's hard. You bring him to the park, run rings around yourself keeping him safe, cut hot dogs into bite-sized pieces fro dinner, and there's no one to say what a good job you're doing, how you were patient and loving for the thousandth time even though you had a headache." And I, who am used to feeling sorry for myself because I am lonely, when all the while, as the Chippewa poem says, I am being carried by great winds across the sky, thought of the invisible work that stitches up the world day and night, the slow, unglamorous work of healing, the way worms in the garden tunnel ceaselessly so the earth can breathe and bees ransack this world into being, while owls and poets stalk shadows, our loneliest labors under the moon. There are mothers for everything, and the sea is a mother too, whispering and whispering to us long after we have stopped listening. I stopped and let myself lean a moment, against the blue shoulder of the air. The work of my heart is the work of the world's heart. There is no other art.

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FrancesEllenWatkinsHarper

GoWorkInMyVineyard

Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord, And gather the bruised grain; But the reapers had left the stubble bare, And I trod the soil in pain. The fields of my Lord are wide and broad, He has pastures fair and green, And vineyards that drink the golden light Which flows from the sun's bright sheen. I heard the joy of the reapers' song, As they gathered golden grain; Then wearily turned unto my task, With a lonely sense of pain. Sadly I turned from the sun's fierce glare, And sought the quiet shade, And over my dim and weary eyes Sleep's peaceful fingers strayed. I dreamed I joined with a restless throng, Eager for pleasure and gain; But ever and anon a stumbler fell, And uttered a cry of pain. But the eager crowd still hurried on, Too busy to pause or heed, When a voice rang sadly through my soul, You must staunch these wounds that bleed. My hands were weak, but I reached them out To feebler ones than mine, And over the shadows of my life Stole the light of a peace divine. Oh! then my task was a sacred thing, How precious it grew in my eyes! 'Twas mine to gather the bruised grain For the "Lord of Paradise." And when the reapers shall lay their grain On the floors of golden light, I feel that mine with its broken sheaves Shall be precious in His sight. Though thorns may often pierce my feet, And the shadows still abide, The mists will vanish before His smile, There will be light at eventide.

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BobGotti

GodsAtWork

Be still, be quiet and you shall see, the hand of The God of Eternity. Just be still and know He is God, shepherding all with staff and rod. He’s at work throughout your life; He’s the comfort in pain and strife. And when a problem won’t relent, God is there with encouragement. He’s at work in the darkest night; for God is for you that guiding light. He guides you with a loving nod, protecting you on this earthly sod. God’s at work in all of His own, as He guides us to an eternal home. Even if you do not see God’s hand, simply be still then understand, God doesn’t move like you or me, He moves throughout all eternity. Starting before the beginning friend, and His presence will not end. He doesn’t work on earthly time; God’s timely measures are Divine. God’s been working in lives of men, since that pair was condemned. God has been working to rectify, the problem created by Satan’s lie. Friend it isn’t that God is slow, He’s just patient so that all can know, The problem by Satan was rectified, on the cross, when Jesus died. Now He’s at work in believers friend, helping others to comprehend, The saving Truth of Jesus Christ, so that they can gain Eternal Life. With a new life in Christ you’ll see, how He’s at work in you and me. Let Christ Jesus in your heart, and a new work in you God will start. God’s work will be done in ways, to fill your heart with eternal praise. (Copyright ©02/2006)

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AshleyJones

GotToGoToWork

gotta go to work work work work wok work work work work work work work gotta go to work work work work work work work work work work work work 12697566846748857455848 work work work work work gotta go to work work work work work wok work 136498368574934 gotta go to work repeatedly, until u want to stop By: Ashley jones

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RICBASTASA

GotToWorkTooAndEarnMyLiving

the hours passed so swiftly now it is 9: 04 on my watch i have written poems candidly direct from the mind to this blank eyes always staring at me this dumb monitor i like to write more but what can i do? got to work to and earn my living and got to hammer some more this mortar and pestle of this justice system that does not really work.... the Chief Justice can kill me but oh well, this is nothing but work and work and work and work nothing to do with justice but work nothing personal (so it is but impersonal) no eyes just this blindness hammer, hammer now hammer out, hammer in this gavel this, oh, well, this bread of life this death for some this escape for you

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NatashaEdwards

GuessWork

Do I read signs that aren't there Is that look in your eye a wanting or a pity Is your mind split in two like mine Guess work Make your move Because I wont......

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EdgardoTugade

HaikuAfterWork

wish i could pull the distance between us like a rug in the sad times (by edgardo s. tugade,13 aug 08)

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MamtaAgarwal

HappyAtWorkTanka

A truck loads garbage, Driver hums along, and sticks Red bouquet on seat. Flowers not discriminate; Fragrance emanate...

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OtakuNatureLoverCSHY

HardWork

What is life without difficulty? Is there such meaning as simplicity? Problems only make us more stress. And also give us white hairs. Here are the school work. Crash! I knelt on the floor! Here comes the homework. Bam! I fell on all fours! ' What are you doing? ' My mother boomed. ' School work and homework, Mom! ' I grumbled. To be continued...

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FranklinPierceAdams

HowDoYouTackleYourWork

How do you tackle your work each day? Are you scared of the job you find? Do you grapple the task that comes your way With a confident, easy mind? Do you stand right up to the work ahead Or fearfully pause to view it? Do you start to toil with a sense of dread? Or feel that you're going to do it? You can do as much as you think you can, But you'll never accomplish more; If you're afraid of yourself, young man, There's little for you in store. For failure comes from the inside first, It's there if we only knew it, And you can win, though you face the worst, If you feel that you're going to do it. Success! It's found in the soul of you, And not in the realm of luck! The world will furnish the work to do, But you must provide the pluck. You can do whatever you think you can, It's all in the way you view it. It's all in the start you make, young man: You must feel that you're going to do it. How do you tackle your work each day? With confidence clear, or dread? What to yourself do you stop and say When a new task lies ahead? What is the thought that is in your mind? Is fear ever running through it? If so, just tackle the next you find By thinking you're going to do it. --From "A Heap o' Linin'," by Edgar A. Guest I tackle my terrible job each day With a fear that is well defined; And I grapple the task that comes my way With no confidence in my mind. I try to evade the work ahead, As I fearfully pause to view it, And I start to toil with a sense of dread, And doubt that I'm going to do it. I can't do as much as I think I can, And I never accomplish more. I am scared to death of myself, old man, As I may have observed before. I've read the proverbs of Charley Schwab, Carnegie, and Marvin Hughitt; But whenever I tackle a difficult job, O gosh! I hate to do it! I try to believe in my vaunted power With that confident kind of bluff, But somebody tells me The Conning Tower Is nothing but awful stuff. And I take up my impotent pen that night, And idly and sadly chew it, As I try to write something merry and bright, And I know that I shall not do it. And that's how I tackle my work each day-- With terror and fear and dread-- And all I can see is a long array Of empty columns ahead. And those are the thoughts that are in my mind, And that's about all there's to it. As long as there's work, of whatever kind, I'm certain I cannot do it.

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JamesMcLain

IWorkWithRetardedFishWhenIAmNotCatchingPeopleWatchingMe

Hunger is fasting always eating bubbles asking for a people stick on which to chew. Leaking tears of spice to mellow tast of you. Sitting on a bay of sunken docks sniffing reused questions fixing clocks flakes of mind floating by a big deluge. Baby fish in fluid takes no druid stones where crazy people seem to lay angle fish swimming close to shore hooked up with you. Even a retarded fish can bend the rule floating in a sea bent ruler way to fat to throw you back.

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EmilyDickinson

ItIsEasyToWorkWhenTheSoulIsAtPlay

244 It is easy to work when the soul is at play— But when the soul is in pain— The hearing him put his playthings up Makes work difficult—then— It is simple, to ache in the Bone, or the Rind— But Gimlets—among the nerve— Mangle daintier—terribler— Like a Panter in the Glove—

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PhilipLevine

MakingItWork

3-foot blue cannisters of nitro along a conveyor belt, slow fish speaking the language of silence. On the roof, I in my respirator patching the asbestos gas lines as big around as the thick waist of an oak tree. "These here are the veins of the place, stuff inside's the blood." We work in rain, heat, snow, sleet. First warm spring winds up from Ohio, I pause at the top of the ladder to take in the wide world reaching downriver and beyond. Sunlight dumped on standing and moving lines of freight cars, new fields of bright weeds blowing, scoured valleys, false mountains of coke and slag. At the ends of sight a rolling mass of clouds as dark as money brings the weather in.

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TingBangBong

MamasDontLetYourBabiesGoToWorkForDisney

Mamas don't let your babies grow up and work for Disney, Don't let 'em wear mouse ears, Or sing a pop song, Don't let 'em wear belly shirts, The whole thing is wrong. Mamas don't let your babies grow up to work for Disney. They''ll end up on drugs And be managed by thugs Cos here's where it's at, Mickey mouse is really a rat..

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MichaelShepherd

MinutesOfADaysWorkOnTheBible

Around 1608; a pleasant day in Cambridge; eight men sit round a table. Originally there were nine: Dr Lively who presided at their speedy start is now departed their distinguished company; gave his lively life to this great enterprise, some say. Among them still, the greatest of divines and Hebrew scholars of their day. This, the seventh version of the Bible through its history; ‘seven times purified’ as the Bible says itself, through Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Latin, and English versions over centuries… Since 1604, they’ve worked upon their allotted section of the Bible; one sixth; now they’re on the 'Canticles'; today it’s Psalm 46: God is our hope and strength, a very present help in trouble… They have arrived now at the final verses: God has stilled the warring armies of the outer world; and now to still the inner world… ‘Lette goe; and knowe thatte I am Godde’.. that, the learned Hebrew scholars say, is how it actually translates… ‘Bee stille and knowe..’ they find in earlier translation; which command should they pass down to centuries to come? Which sound tells the soul the most, of its true nature? Or which sound will aid the soul the quickest to return to its true self? The scholars and divines, (all 54 of them in sum) work at phenomenal, at godly, speed; this is the great work of their lives; ‘Let go’; ‘Be still’ – which has more the ring of soul’s eternity? All have done their homework; rolled the words around their tongue, their mind; heard them uttered from the pulpit of their inner house of God; a brief discussion; summary arms then raised in silent vote; one command, they have agreed, is for our present help in trouble, for the moment now; the other is for ever; the soul’s instruction from its peaceful self; as God speaks to the angels, who speak to the hearts of men: the room falls silent; while the secretary scratches in the wet black ink: ‘Be still and know that I Am God’

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DeanYoung

MyWorkAmongTheInsects

The body of the lingerneedle is filled with hemolymph unconstricted except for a single dorsal vessel. A ventral diaphragm bathes the organs of the head, undulations drawing the fluid back through tiny holes called ostia aided by the movement of a Napoleon within each abdominal segment pacing his Elba exile, muttering la Russie la Russie as the snow squeaks beneath his boots. All through the night the temperature drops but no one knows where the lingerneedle goes. Yet it emerges each spring like a baseball team. Gertrude Stein may have been referring to this when she wrote, A hurried heaving is a quartz confinement, although what we normally think of as referring is brought into question by her work. A hive of white suching. At the time of her death, she owned many valuable paintings renowned for ugliness. Gertrude Stein grew up in Oakland but an Oakland as we know it not. No plastic bags snagged in the trees. Semi- automatics had yet to reach the fifth grade. A person could stand in a field, naked and singing. Sure, there was blood but there were rags for wiping up the blood. Deciduous trees, often confused by California dimes, just bloom whenthehellever like how people have sex in French movies. Here, during the cool evenings and hot mid-days, the mild winters and resistive texts, the lingerneedle thrives. Upon the ruddy live oak leaves appears its first instar, spit-like but changing shortly to a messy lace erupting into many-legged, heavy-winged adults that want only to mate. Often in July, one finds them collapsed in the tub, unable to gain purchase on the porcelain that seems to attract them mightily. It is best not to make everything a metaphor of one's own life but many have pressed themselves against cool and smooth, in love and doomed. Truly the earth hurtles through the cosmos at an alarming rate. Recent research suggests a gummy discharge of the mating pair has promise as an anti-coagulant. Please, more money is needed. The sun sets. The air turns chilly and full of jasmine.

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DavidDeSantis

OfficeWork

Work, work, work.. sitting effort, on a chair empty screen, emotive stare Work, work, work... slunched shoulders, side by side warming ocean, stolen pride, Work, work, work... hey man, you man, ant-field flys pergatory, promotion, pitch-fork eyes. Work, work, work... college loving, take me back, drunk lace orgy, primrose sack Work, work, work... day dream, day stare, simple soul. Drop your complexity and know, your, role. Copyright (c) David DeSantis

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DylanThomas

OnNoWorkOfWords

On no work of words now for three lean months in the bloody Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft: To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven, The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft. To lift to leave from treasures of man is pleasing death That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark. To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice. Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas If I take to burn or return this world which is each man's work.

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MatthewArnold

QuietWork

One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown, One lesson of two duties kept at one Though the loud world proclaim their enmity-- Of toil unsever'd from tranquility! Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil, Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.

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RevRebeccaGuileHudson

RealWorkTheBrilliantFool

He was a piece of work, His life a work of art He was a brilliant fool masquerading as genius Or, perhaps, a stellar genius just acting the fool He wore his success like a stagnant, rotting albatross around his neck, its stench his constant companion and splendid cologne His Life Portrait was surreal, abstract, askew Each and every moment of his moments engorged with gleeful rage and upcoming root-canal apprehension He was a proverbial mess Who constantly, addictively, helplessly sought the problem, the flaw, the not-quite-right – even in Summer’s pale roses He just took for granted that, even in Heaven there’s something terribly off, The angels’ harps just a wee bit out of tune Like I said, this man was a colossal mess – Picasso gone wrong

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DavidHarris

SheDontWorkHereAnymore

She sat alone in front of her computer screen hoping for some images to appear and awaken her lost dream. She wrote of love in words so sweet and pure. Words of love she hoped one day would be spoken back to her. Everyday she grew more lonely as time kept marching on; hoping all the time to hear springs sweet love song. Whether she ever heard it is very hard to tell as she no longer works here. Some say she found her love and eloped with him, others said she just died of a lonely broken heart. Whichever way the story went it is hard to tell as she don’t work here anymore. 18 February 2008

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NOAHGRAY

ShesAWorkOfArt

My heart is beating I have a brush in my hand There is paint all around me Your face I paint Now it's done On the wall it hangs I'm looking at it and smiling My heart is beating faster It's beautiful It's my mom

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WilliamShakespeare

Sonnet5ThoseHoursThatWithGentleWorkDidFrame

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting Time leads summer on To hideous winter and confounds him there, Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness everywhere. Then, were not summer's distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

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WilliamShakespeare

SonnetVThoseHoursThatWithGentleWorkDidFrame

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there; Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: Then were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

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DrACelestineRajManoharMD

SonnetWorkWorkWork

Forget the past, however bitter be; Tomorrow is yet in your very hands; But labor hard towards a goal truly; Your dreams could turn true from some distant lands. Let patience stay with you till very last; Small bickering should not upset your mood; All cannot take the lane that is too fast; There isn't the time to waste or even brood. And when a hill in life is climbed by you; The glory, satisfaction are so great; Nevertheless, you must condescend too; And try in life to do a greater feat. All days are same; we must keep working more; Work harder till life takes you to the fore.

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TsiraGogeshvili

SorcerersWork

Sorcerer's Work If all the morning became identical, If all the night- long continue in a twilight... If the soul is punished to live without dream, Tell me, it's not called death of the poet... If azure- eyes do not see to sky more, more Inevitably, I will soon forget of heavens colour ... Don't begin a white song my white swan, while I know, it's sorcerer's work, he has not died -live...

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FaySlimm

SpeakingOfWork

Nothing is still, and we need to keep pace With seasonal race, as earth itself works. Life's march is relentless, submission wise, As eternity lies in and around The urges to work. Nature hates shirking. Starting today, join in the harmony. Play the symphony along with the universe Learn that tasking begets much Self-respect from the first. There is a saying, those who love work Love life, and labour enables the worker To tap it's secrets of utmost delight. All knowledge leads to it, all love Is filled with it, structures are built with it. This love of work is a linking with self And a binding with others, even with God, For the Great Workers' example Stands as it's own proof. Injecting something of spirit in work Is shown, no matter what object attained. Pertaining to effort, A mere loaf of bread, statue of stone, Table of wood, flagon of wine, All have the breath of their maker around And inside, hiding golden rewards. Because labour is visible love In perpetual motion, resulting in action, And always achieving Only what love would approve.

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WaltWhitman

SpiritWhoseWorkIsDone

SPIRIT whose work is done! spirit of dreadful hours! Ere, departing, fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever unfaltering pressing;) Spirit of many a solemn day, and many a savage scene! Electric spirit! That with muttering voice, through the war now closed, like a tireless phantom flitted, Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the drum; --Now, as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, reverberates round me; As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles; While the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders; 10 While I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders; While those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them, appearing in the distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward, Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro, to the right and left, Evenly, lightly rising and falling, as the steps keep time; --Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death next day; Touch my mouth, ere you depart--press my lips close! Leave me your pulses of rage! bequeath them to me! fill me with currents convulsive! Let them scorch and blister out of my chants, when you are gone; Let them identify you to the future, in these songs.

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masudadurani

TeamWork

the light is fading out we come together we each hold a candle to form a greater light as you see teamwork is the best way

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RabindranathTagore

TheGardenerXLetYourWorkBeBride

Let your work be, bride. Listen, the guest has come. Do you hear, he is gently shaking the chain which fastens the door? See that your anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is not over- hurried at meeting him. Let your work be, bride, the guest had come in the evening. No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened. It is the full moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the court- yard; the sky overhead is bright. Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the door if you fear. No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened. Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door when you meet him. If he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can lower you eyes in silence. Do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him in. Have no words with him if your are shy. Have you not finished you work yet, bride? Listen, the guest has come. Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed? Have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening service? Have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair, and done your toilet for the night? O bride, do you hear, the guest has come? Let your work be!

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JorieGraham

TheWayThingsWork

is by admitting or opening away. This is the simplest form of current: Blue moving through blue; blue through purple; the objects of desire opening upon themselves without us; the objects of faith. The way things work is by solution, resistance lessened or increased and taken advantage of. The way things work is that we finally believe they are there, common and able o illustrate themselves. Wheel, kinetic flow, rising and falling water, ingots, levers and keys, I believe in you, cylinder lock, pully, lifting tackle and crane lift your small head-- I believe in you-- your head is the horizon to my hand. I believe forever in the hooks. The way things work is that eventually something catches.

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EdwardKofiLouis

ThisArtWork

The love of a muse, The pen of an artist, This ink work will teach many yet unborn. This art is from a realm to guide you, This art work is like a mustard seed aroun you; It is original! It comes from a realm unknown; It will inspire you. This art is real to abstract your minds, The innovative nature of my mind to you all; It is the act of my dreams beyond imaginations! This art will teach many, It will inspire you all that love the muse. This art work, It is like a mustard seed; It will grow to give you joy! It is like the muse next door, It will touch and influence you; This art work ia sll that i have as an artist This art work is never known, It is called, 'Pen-Painting Graphics Abstracts'. This art will teach many, My innerself from the realm of imaginations! This art will teach you; But, the artist is never known. This art is from a realm to guide you into my heart, This art is from a realm to bring you into my world, This is the love of a sweet muse to you all; This art is from the pen of an artist who, Is yet to be known. This art is here to stay, This art is all that i have for you all; Cos', he who proves his skills proves his realms.

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DanielWHunt

ThisIsHowToMakeAMarriageWork

When I got married I had a rubber lizzard that I had for a number of years. The lizzard looked and felt real. So I said, Tonight I'm gonna have a little fun with my honey bun. I slipped in bed and put the lizzard under the covers on her side of the bed. When I lay there in wait for the fun to begin. She came in and hopped in beside me and landed on that lizzard. She let out the awfulest blood curdling scream I ever heard.Then she started to cry. Then she screamed again. Then she cried some more. Then she finally got her breath. "O.K. You jerk. Take that lizzard and get out the door." I put the lizzard in my dresser drawer before I went out the door.I thought our marriage had come to an end. I promised her I'd never do that again. All the people in town told my wife that she had married a clown that would never settle down. I learned something that night when we had our first fight. If you treat your wife with respect and don't act like a jerk, your marriage is bound to work and she will even iron you shirts. You can't expect her to earn your living. You've got to get off your duff and earn some of that spending stuff. You may not have much money. But you will alwyas have your honey. Which is worth more than all the money. You've got to settle down and quit your fooling around. Trying to paint the town. You can't sit in a bar. And make the payment on your car. The other side of the street may look greener, poison oak may look like four leave clover. But you will know the difference when it's all over. My wife and I have been married almost fifty years now and that lizzard is still in my dresser drawer.

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JamesClerkMaxwell

ToHermannStoffkraftPhDTheHeroOfARecentWorkCalledParadoxicalPhilosophy

A paradoxical ode, after Shelley. I. My soul is an entangled knot, Upon a liquid vortex wrought By Intellect, in the Unseen residing, And thine cloth like a convict sit, With marlinspike untwisting it, Only to find its knottiness abiding; Since all the tools for its untying In four-dimensioned space are lying Wherein thy fancy intersperses Long avenues of universes, While Klein and Clifford fill the void With one finite, unbounded homaloid, And think the Infinite is now at last destroyed. II. But when thy Science lifts her pinions In Speculation’s wild dominions, We treasure every dictum thou emittest, While down the stream of Evolution We drift, expecting no solution But that of the survival of the fittest. Till, in the twilight of the gods, When earth and sun are frozen clods, When, all its energy degraded, Matter to æther shall have faded; We, that is, all the work we’ve done, As waves in æther, shall for ever run In ever-widening spheres through heavens beyond the sun. III. Great Principle of all we see, Unending Continuity! By thee are all our angles sweetly rounded, By thee are our misfits adjusted, And as I still in thee have trusted, So trusting, let me never be confounded! Oh never may direct Creation Break in upon my contemplation; Still may thy causal chain, ascending, Appear unbroken and unending, While Residents in the Unseen— Æons and Emanations—intervene, And from my shrinking soul the Unconditioned screen.

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