Weather poems
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The Flower Boat
© Robert Frost
The fisherman's swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And her in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
Our Singing Strength
© Robert Frost
Well, something for a snowstorm to have shown
The country's singing strength thus brought together,
the thought repressed and moody with the weather
Was none the less there ready to be freed
And sing the wildflowers up from root and seed.
An Encounter
© Robert Frost
ONCE on the kind of day called weather breeder,
When the heat slowly hazes and the sun
By its own power seems to be undone,
I was half boring through, half climbing through
I Will Sing You One-O
© Robert Frost
It was long I lay
Awake that night
Wishing that night
Would name the hour
Tree At My Window
© Robert Frost
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
The Sacrifice Of Iphigenia
© Aeschylus
Now long and long from wintry Strymon blew
The weary, hungry, anchor-straining blasts,
The Runaway
© Robert Frost
Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say 'Whose colt?'
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
Home After Three Months Away
© Robert Lowell
Gone now the baby's nurse,
a lioness who ruled the roost
The Silence
© Emile Verhaeren
Ever since ending of the summer weather.
When last the thunder and the lightning broke,
Shatt'ring themselves upon it at one stroke,
The Silence has not stirred, there in the heather.
A Hairline Fracture
© Amy Clampitt
Whatever went wrong, that week, was more than weather:
a shoddy streak in the fabric of the air of London
The Woodland Grave
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WE roam, my love and I,
'Mid the rich woodland grasses,
Where, through dense clouds of greenery,
The softened sunshine passes;
But near a rivulet's lonely wave
We come half startled, on--a grave!
Hold Hard The Ancient Minutes
© Dylan Thomas
Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan's hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly's rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.
Miriam Tazewell
© John Crowe Ransom
When Miriam Tazewell heard the tempest bursting
And his wrathy whips across the sky drawn crackling
She stuffed her ears for fright like a young thing
And with heart full of the flowers took to weeping.
