Last night I heard a robin sing;
And though I walked where woods were bare,
And winds were cold, life quivered there,
As if in sleep the heart of spring
Were moved to dim remembering.
To-day no promise haunts the air;
I find but snow and silence where
Last night I heard a robin sing.
~~ Sophie Jewett (1861-1909), 1893 from The Pilgrim, and other poems, 1896
I will not venture far outside today
Where things are frozen solid anyway
There wind is howling through the naked trees
I doubt there's really all that much to see
There's ice I'm sure that's covering the lake
Bare rocks and such whatever trail I take
All birds and creatures of the wooded park
Are hibernating somewhere safe and dark
Still, looking out my window I can muse
If winter could by chance be holding clues
To secrets known to those who cannot stay
Indoors on even coldest winter days
Of course you know I say all this the while
I'm buckling boots and going for a mile
I'm not just February
With winds that blow
All day, and piled-up snow;
I'm Washington and Lincoln, too,
Who kept our country's flag for you!
I'm Valentine of airy grace —
With golden hearts and hearts of lace
And pretty cards that people send,
Quite as a secret, to a friend.
Though I am short of days and small,
I'm quite a big month, after all!
~~ Annette Wynne (1889-1952)
from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919
Newly wedded, and happy quite, Careless alike of wind and weather,
Two wee birds, from a merry flight, Swing in the tree-top, sing together:
Love to them, in the wintry hour,
Summer and sunshine, bud and flower!
So, belovéd, when skies are sad, Love can render their sombre golden;
A thought of thee, and the day is glad As a rose in the dewy dawn unfolden;
And away, away, on passionate wings,
My heart like a bird at thy window sings!
~~
Ina Coolbrith (1841-1928)
fromThe Golden Gate, and other poems, 1895
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
[Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn’t seem to miss him if he stayed away.]
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship’s call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full dolorum omnium,
Excepting when you choose to come And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
Who’d prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays, And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow,
I trust to find your heart the seat Of wasting sorrow.
~~ Lewis Carroll (1832-1898), 1860 from Phantasmagoria, and other poems, 1869
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