Snow Poems - Poems For Snow
Snow poems from famous poets and best snow poems to feel good. Most beautiful snow poems ever written. Read all poems for snow.
A Patch Of Old Snow - Poem by Robert Frost
There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.
Comments about A Patch Of Old Snow by Robert Frost
A Patch Of Old Snow
Dust Of Snow
Shoveling Snow With Buddha
The Snow Man
The Snow Fairy
Walter de la Mare
A March Snow
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Mad As The Mist And Snow
William Butler Yeats
The Chimney Sweeper: A Little Black Thin..
Patterns In The Snow
Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs
The Snow Storm
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Hunters In The Snow
William Carlos Williams
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Faun Sees Snow For The First Time
From "Snow-Bound," 11:1-40, 116-154
John Greenleaf Whittier
Jay M. McCabe
Writing Shit About New Snow
The Snow Is Melting
Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl
John Greenleaf Whittier
The Cross Of Snow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
At The Melting Of The Snow
Snow White's Acne
Improvisations: Light And Snow
Conrad Potter Aiken
On A Lady Throwing Snow-Balls At Her Lover
Poem (Old Man In The Crystal Morning Aft..
Pissing In The Snow
Snow In Europe
A Theory Of Snow
Two Travellers Perishing In Snow
Marine Snow At Mid-Depths And Down
Snow Or Snowdrops?
An Acorn Lies Within The Snow
Risha Ahmed (12 yrs)
The Quiet Snow
Sonnet -- The Snow-Drop
Mary Darby Robinson
The First Winter Snow
New Snow Poems
- Talk Of Escaped Teuths, Nyein Way
- No Snow, No Show, Sebastian Melmoth
- Skier's Prayer, David Welch
- Incidents, Yang Lian
- Trail Run,4/15/19, vasyl miller
- Till Human Voices Wake Us And..., Dónall Dempsey
- Enjoying Our Little Lives, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Anticipation - Lincoln Park Zoo, Ima Ryma
- SNOW AND LOVE, Lêdo Ivo
- One Magic Night, Audrey Loveland
Dust Of Snow
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow, its white flag waving over everything, the landscape vanished, not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness, and beyond these windows the government buildings smothered, schools and libraries buried, the post office lost under the noiseless drift, the paths of trains softly blocked, the world fallen under this falling. In a while I will put on some boots and step out like someone walking in water, and the dog will porpoise through the drifts, and I will shake a laden branch, sending a cold shower down on us both. But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house, a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow. I will make a pot of tea and listen to the plastic radio on the counter, as glad as anyone to hear the news that the Kiddie Corner School is closed, the Ding-Dong School, closed, the All Aboard Children's School, closed, the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed, along with - some will be delighted to hear - the Toadstool School, the Little School, Little Sparrows Nursery School, Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School, the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed, and - clap your hands - the Peanuts Play School. So this is where the children hide all day, These are the nests where they letter and draw, where they put on their bright miniature jackets, all darting and climbing and sliding, all but the few girls whispering by the fence. And now I am listening hard in the grandiose silence of the snow, trying to hear what those three girls are plotting, what riot is afoot, which small queen is about to be brought down.
Walking through a field with my little brother Seth I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow. For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground. He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer. Then we were on the roof of the lake. The ice looked like a photograph of water. Why he asked. Why did he shoot them. I didn't know where I was going with this. They were on his property, I said. When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room. Today I traded hellos with my neighbor. Our voices hung close in the new acoustics. A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling. We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence. But why were they on his property, he asked.
Shoveling Snow With Buddha
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok you would never see him doing such a thing, tossing the dry snow over a mountain of his bare, round shoulder, his hair tied in a knot, a model of concentration. Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word for what he does, or does not do. Even the season is wrong for him. In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid? Is this not implied by his serene expression, that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe? But here we are, working our way down the driveway, one shovelful at a time. We toss the light powder into the clear air. We feel the cold mist on our faces. And with every heave we disappear and become lost to each other in these sudden clouds of our own making, these fountain-bursts of snow. This is so much better than a sermon in church, I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling. This is the true religion, the religion of snow, and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky, I say, but he is too busy to hear me. He has thrown himself into shoveling snow as if it were the purpose of existence, as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway you could back the car down easily and drive off into the vanities of the world with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio. All morning long we work side by side, me with my commentary and he inside his generous pocket of silence, until the hour is nearly noon and the snow is piled high all around us; then, I hear him speak. After this, he asks, can we go inside and play cards? Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table while you shuffle the deck. and our boots stand dripping by the door. Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes and leaning for a moment on his shovel before he drives the thin blade again deep into the glittering white snow.