Catalogue

Catalogue

The snow swirls at the window sills,
The drifts are high,
The pale-gold winter sunlight spills
From a cold sky;
But in my hands I hold a small
And lovely thing:
A nursery catalogue, with all
The light of spring
And summer in it, as I turn
A page and see
Tulips, and scarlet poppies burn
Their fires for me.

Across the winter whiteness drifts
The misty red
Of peonies, and blue smoke lifts
From a larkspur bed.
I warm my heart at a crimson rose;
These berries fee
My hunger, and an apple glows
To meet my need.

Swirl at my window, snow, and see
If you can imprison me!

Grace N. Crowell

From My Mother's Poetry Notebook

I can see my mother pouring over her seed and bulb catalogues.  My mother could grow anything; she had such a green thumb!  She also drew plans/ maps for her flower and vegetable gardens.  They were a lot of work, but I believe they gave her great joy.  My heart is gladdened to think of my mother, especially in her planning for growing things.

The Winter Scene

The Winter Scene by Bliss Carman

The rutted roads are all like iron; the skies
Are keen and brilliant; only the oak leaves cling
In the bare woods, or hardy bitter-sweet;
Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on;
And all the ponds are sealed with sheated ice
That rings with stroke of skate and hockey-stick,
Or in the twilight cracks with running whoop.
Bring in the logs of oak and hickory,
And make an ample blaze on the wide hearth.
Now is the time, with winter o'er the world,
For books and friends and yellow candle-light,
And timeless lingering by the settling fire,
While all the shuddering stars are keen and cold.

2.
Out of the silent portal of the hours,
When frosts are come and all the hosts put on
Their burnished gear to march across the night
And o'er a darkened earth in splendor shine,
Slowly above the world Orion wheels
His glittering square, while on the shadowy hill
And throbbing like a sea-light through the dusk,
Great Sirius rises in his flashing blue.
Lord of the winter night, august and pure,
Returning year on year untouched by time,
To kindle faith with thy immortal fire;
There are no hurts that beauty cannot ease,
No ills that love cannot at last repair,
In the courageous progress of the soul.

3.
Russet and white and gray is the oak wood.
In the great snow.  Still from the North it comes,
Whispering, settling, sifting through the trees,
O'er-loading branch and twig.  The road is lost.
Clearing and meadow, stream and ice-bound pond
Are made once more a trackless wilderness
In the white hush where not a creature stirs;
And the pale sun is blotted from the sky.
In the strange twilight the lone traveler halts
To listen while the stealthy snowflakes fall.
And then far off toward the Stamford shore,
Where through the storm the coast-wise liners go,
Faint and recurrent on the muddled air,
A foghorn booming through the Smother, -- hark!

4.
When the day changed and the mad wind died down,
The powdery drifts that all day long had blown
Across the meadows and the open fields,
Or whirled like diamond dust in the bright sun,
Settled to rest, and for a tranquil hour
The lengthening bluish shadows on the snow
Stole down the orchard slope, and a rose light
Flooded the earth with glory and with peace,
Then in the west behind the cedars black
The sinking sun made red the winter dusk.

(Mom's copy of this poem ends here, but I found the rest on-line, here.
The last 4 lines are below along with a few notes for specified lines:)

52With sullen flare upon the snowy ridge,--

            53As in a masterpiece by Hokusai,

            54Where on a background gray, with flaming breath

            55A scarlet dragon dies in dusky gold.

Notes
18] Orion: constellation in Taurus named after a hunter with belt and sword.
21] Sirius: star in constellation Canis Major.
38] Stamford: town in Connecticut.
41] the Smother: thick cloud of snow, fog, spray, etc.
53] Hokusai: Katsushika, Japanese artist (1760-1849).

He Who Loves The Winter

He Who Loves The Winter

He who loves the winter understands
The blue-white peace of forestlands.

He who walks a swamp-trail, soft with snow
Shall learn a secret which few men know.

He who climbs the contour of a hill
Shall commune with Time if his heart stands still.

He who hears the whir of partridge wings
Shall remember forever a number of things.

He who finds a willow, glowing red,
Shall flame with faith which quickens the dead.

He who loves the winter sufficiently
Shall tower toward heaven like a tall pine tree.

~ Harry Elmore Hurd

From my mother's poetry notebook