The Months / Sara Coleridge

The Months

January brings the snow,
makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,
stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daises at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hand with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasents,
Then to gather nuts is pleasent.

Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

~~
Sara Coleridge (1802-1852)
from Pretty Lessons in Verse for Good Children, 1845

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Sara Coleridge biography

June Dreams, in January / Sidney Lanier (1)

June Dreams, In January

"So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon
That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,
In languid palpitation, half a-swoon
With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;

"Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale
As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips
Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale
And then as red as any virgin's lips.

"O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased,
– Faint Odor from the day-flower's crushing born,
– Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East
That cannot see her lord again till morn:

"And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky
To catch the sacred raining of star-light:
And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,
Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:

"And short-breath'd winds, under yon gracious moon
Doing mild errands for mild violets,
Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June
What aimless way the odor-current sets:

"And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells,
Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays,
Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,
Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,

"Or lying like young lilies in a lake
About the great white Lotus of the moon,
Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake
Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon,

"Or budding thick about full open stars,
Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices,
Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,
Or trim-set in quaint gardener's fantasies:

"And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves,
And whispered confidence of dark and green,
And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,
And tinklings floating over water-sheen!"

[continued in part 2 . . . ]

June Dreams, in January / Sidney Lanier (2)

[... continued from part 1]

Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed;
And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness,
Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land,
And camped upon the transient Italy
That he had dreamed to blossom in his soul.
"I'll date this dream," he said; "so: `Given, these,
On this, the coldest night in all the year,
From this, the meanest garret in the world,
In this, the greatest city in the land,
To you, the richest folk this side of death,
By one, the hungriest poet under heaven,
– Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust,
And while his last, last ember died of cold,
And while the mortal ice i' the air made free
Of all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart,
And while soft Luxury made show to strike
Her gloved hands together and to smile
What time her weary feet unconsciously
Trode wheels that lifted Avarice to power,
– And while, moreover, – O thou God, thou God –
His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar,
Within the village whence she sent him forth
Into the town to make his name and fame,
Waiting, all confident and proud and calm,
Till he should make for her his name and fame,
Waiting – O Christ, how keen this cuts! – large-eyed,
With Baby Charley till her husband make
For her and him a poet's name and fame.'
– Read me," he cried, and rose, and stamped his foot
Impatiently at Heaven, "read me this,"
(Putting th' inquiry full in the face of God)
"Why can we poets dream us beauty, so,
But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can I
Make, aye, create this fervid throbbing June
Out of the chill, chill matter of my soul,
Yet cannot make a poorest penny-loaf
Out of this same chill matter, no, not one
For Mary though she starved upon my breast?"
And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed,
And, late, just when his heart leaned o'er
The very edge of breaking, fain to fall,
God sent him sleep.
                                        There came his room-fellow,
Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream,
Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell on
The poem in big-hearted comic rage,
Quick folded, thrust in envelope, addressed
To him, the critic-god, that sitteth grim
And giant-grisly on the stone causeway
That leadeth to his magazine and fame.
Him, by due mail, the little Dream of June
Encountered growling, and at unawares
Stole in upon his poem-battered soul
So that he smiled, – then shook his head upon 't
– Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last,
As one that deadly sinned against his will,
He writ upon the margin of the Dream
A wondrous, wondrous word that in a day
Did turn the fleeting song to very bread,
– Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept,
And Mary slept with happy drops a-gleam
Upon long lashes of her serene eyes
From twentieth reading of her poet's news
Quick-sent, "O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power,
And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine,
And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love,
To clothe thy holy loveliness withal,
And I will dream thee here to live by me,
Thee and my little man thou hold'st at breast,
– Come, Name, come, Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart's feet!"

~~
Sidney Lanier (1842-1881), 1869
from Poems, 1884

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Sidney Lanier biography

White House / Anna Akhmatova

White House

Sun is frosty. In a parade
Soldiers march with all might.
I am glad at the January noon,
And my fear's very light.

Here they remember each branch
And every silhouette.
Raspberry light is dripping
Through a snow-whitened net.

Almost white was the house,
Made of glass was the wing.
How many times with numb arm
Did I hold the doorbell's ring.

How many times . . . play, soldiers,
I'll make my house, I'll espy
You from a roof that's inclined,
From the ivy that does not die.

But who at last did remove it,
Took away into foreign lands
Or took out from the memory
Forever the road thence . . .

Snow flies, like a cherry blossom,
Distant bagpipes desist . . .
And, it seems, nobody knows
That the white house does not exist.

~~
Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
translated by Ilya Shambat

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

from Ilya Shambat's Classical Russian Poetry Translation Site


Белый дом

Морозное солнце. С парада
Идут и идут войска.
Я полдню январскому рада,
И тревога моя легка.

Здесь помню каждую ветку
И каждый силуэт.
Сквозь инея белую сетку
Малиновый каплет свет.

Здесь дом был почти что белый,
Стеклянное крыльцо.
Столько раз рукой помертвелой
Я держала звонок-кольцо.

Столько раз… Играйте, солдаты,
А я мой дом отыщу,
Узнаю по крыше покатой,
По вечному плющу.

Но кто его отодвинул,
В чуткие унес города
Или из памяти вынул
Навсегда дорогу туда…

Волынки вдали замирают,
Снег летит, как вишневый цвет…
И, видно, никто не знает,
Что белого дома нет.

~~
Анны Ахматовой (1889-1966)
1914

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Anna Akhmatova biography
Ilya Shambat biography

The Winter Moonlight / Clark Ashton Smith

The Winter Moonlight

The silence of the silver night
Lies visibly upon the pines;
In marble flame the moon declines
Where spectral mountains dream in light.

And pale as with eternal sleep
The enchanted valleys, far and strange,
Extend for ever without change
Beneath the veiling splendors deep.

Carven of steel or fretted stone,
One stark and leafless autumn tree
With shadows made of ebony
Leans on the moon-ward field alone.

~~
Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961)
from Ebony and Crystal, 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Logopop, Moonlight in the middle of nowhere 4, 2011. CC BY-SA 3.0, Wikimedia Commons

Clark Ashton Smith biography

Winter: An Elegy / Henry James Pye

Elegy II

Now the brown woods their leafy load resign
And rage the tempests with resistless force!
Mantled with snow the silver mountains shine,
And icy fetters chain the rivulet's course.

No pleasing object charms our wearied view,
No waving verdure decks the dreary glade,
Save that o'er yonder tomb the mournful yew
Projects an awful solitary shade.

Short is the Spring, and short the Summer hour,
And short the time that fruitful Autumn reigns;
But tedious roll the days when Winter's power
Asserts its empire o'er our wafted plains.

As swiftly wears our Spring of life away,
As swiftly will our jolly Summer go;
But, ah! when Winter clouds our chearless day,
Again the vernal breezes never blow!

Mark this, and boast your fancied worth no more,
Ye great, ye proud, ye learned, and ye brave!
With hasty lapse some circling years are o'er,
And lo, ye slumber in the silent grave!

Why views the sage fair Pleasure's transient charm,
And all her votaries gay with scowling eye?
Alike he sloops to Fate's superior arm,
Alike he suffers, and alike must die!

Say, what avails it then with brow severe -
The silken bands of Luxury to despise;
To bring by thought the day of horror near,
And view the tempest ere the clouds arise?

Better with laughing nymphs in revels gay
To give the hours to VENUS, wine, and song;
And, since the rapid moments never stay,
To catch fome pleafures as they glide along.

Deluded man! whom empty sounds beguile,
What transports here await thy anxious soul?
Know, love abhors the venal harlot's smiie,
And hell-born fury rages in the bowl.

Seek Virtue to be blest; but seek her far,
Far from those gloomy sons of letter'd pride,
Who 'gainft the paffions wage eternal war,
And, foes to Nature, Nature's dictates chide.

Let mirth, not madness, crown the temperate feast;
Let love and beauty joys refin'd impart:
Though mere sensation charm the groveling breast,
'Tis mutual passion fires the generous heart.

The various blessings bounteous Heaven bestows
With gratitude and charity repay,
Relieve thy suffering friend, or share his woes,
But from his failings turn thine eyes away.

So, when the wintry storms of death are past,
In brighter skies, and ether more serene,
Thy wither'd boughs shall bud again, to last
For ever blooming, and for ever green.
 
~~
Henry James Pye (1745-1813)
from Poems on Various Subjects, 1795

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry James Pye biography

Winter Twilight / Bliss Carman

Winter Twilight

Along the wintry skyline,
Crowning the rocky crest,
Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees
Against the saffron west,—
Its gray and purple network
Of branching tracery
Outspread upon the lucent air,
Like weed within the sea.

The scarlet robe of autumn
Renounced and put away,
The mystic Earth is fairer still,—
A Puritan in gray.
The spirit of the winter,
How tender, how austere!
Yet all the ardor of the spring
And summer's dream are here.

Fear not, O timid lover,
The touch of frost and rime!
This is the virtue that sustained
The roses in their prime.
The anthem of the northwind
Shall hallow thy despair,
The benediction of the snow
Be answer to thy prayer.

And now the star of evening
That is the pilgrim's sign,
Is lighted in the primrose dusk,—
A lamp before a shrine.
Peace fills the mighty minster,
Tranquil and gray and old,
And all the chancel of the west
Is bright with paling gold.

A little wind goes sifting
Along the meadow floor,—
Like steps of lovely penitents
Who sighingly adore.
Then falls the twilight curtain,
And fades the eerie light,
And frost and silence turn the keys
In the great doors of night.

~~
Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
from Later Poems, 1926

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Bliss Carman biography

Januarie / Edmund Spenser

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

Januarie. Ægloga prima. 

ARGUMENT. In this fyrst Æglogue Colin Clout a shepheardes boy complaineth him of his vnfortunate loue, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured of a countrie lasse called Rosalinde: with which strong affection being very sore traueled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne winterbeaten flocke. And lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all former pleasaunce and delights, hee breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and casteth him selfe to the ground.

COLIN Cloute.

A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call)
when Winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent.
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now vnnethes their feete could them vphold.

All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while,)
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke:
Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,
And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde.

Ye gods of loue, that pitie louers payne,
(if any gods the paine of louers pitie:)
Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine,
And bowe your eares vnto my doleful dittie.
And Pan thou shepheards God, that once didst loue,
Pitie the paines, that thou thy selfe didst proue.

Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted,
Art made a myrrhour, to behold my plight:
Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted
Thy sommer prowde with Daffadillies dight.
And now is come thy wynters stormy state,
Thy mantle mard, wherein thou maskedst late.

Such rage as winters, reigneth in my heart,
My life bloud friesing wtih vnkindly cold:
Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smarte,
As if my yeare were wast, and woxen old.
And yet alas, but now my spring begonne,
And yet alas, yt is already donne.

You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre:
And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost,
Instede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre:
I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine,
Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.

All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere,
My timely buds with wayling all are wasted:
The blossome, which my braunch of youth did beare,
With breathed sighes is blowne away, & blasted,
And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,
As on your boughes the ysicles depend.

Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent,
Whose knees are weak through fast and evill fare:
Mayst witnesse well by thy ill gouernement,
Thy maysters mind is ouercome with care.
Thou weak, I wanne: thou leabe, I quite forlorne:
With mourning pyne I, you with pyning mourne.

A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower,
Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see:
And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure,
Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight, as shee.
Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane.
Ah God, that loue should breede both ioy and payne.

It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,
Albee my loue he seeke with dayly suit:
His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,
His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.
Ah foolish Hobbinol, thy gyfts bene vayne:
Colin them gives to Rosalind againe.

I loue thilke lasse, (alas why doe I loue?)
And am forlorne, (alas why am I lorne?)
Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reproue,
And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.
Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake,
And laughes the songes, that Colin Clout doth make.

Wherefore my pype, albee rude Pan thou please,
Yet for thou pleasest not, where most I would:
And thou vnlucky Muse, that wontst to ease
My musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should:
Both pype and Muse, shall sore the while abye.
So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye.

By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe,
His weary waine, and nowe the frosty Night
Her mantle black through heauen gan overhaile.
Which seene, the pensife boy halfe in despight
Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe,
Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edmund Spenser biography

When Snow Lies Deep / William Canton

When Snow Lies Deep

When frost has burned the hedges black,
    And children cannot sleep for cold;
When snow lies deep on the withered leaves,
And roofs are white from ridge to eaves;
When bread is dear, and work is slack,
    Take pity on the poor and old!
 
The faggot and the loaf of bread
    You could not miss would be their store.
Upon how little the old can live!
Give like the poor — who freely give.
Remember, when the fire burns red
    The wolf leaves sniffing at the door.

And you whose lives are left forlorn,
    Whose sons, whose hopes, whose fires have died,
Oh, you pitiful people old,
Remember this and be consoled —
That Christ the Comforter was born,
    And still is born, in wintertide.

~~
William Canton (1845-1926)
from W.V. Her Book, and various verse, 1897

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

William Canton biography

"When Snow Lies Deep" read by Matt Rossman. Courtesy Mended Maple Poetry.

Now dreary dawns the eastern light / A.E. Housman

XXVIII

Now dreary dawns the eastern light,
        And fall of eve is drear,
And cold the poor man lies at night,
        And so goes out the year.

Little is the luck I've had,
        And oh, 'tis comfort small
To think that many another lad
        Has had no luck at all.

~~
A.E. Housman (1859-1936)
from Last Poems, 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

John Everett Millais (1829-1896), Blow, Blow thou winter wind, 1892.

Public domain, Wikimedia Commons

A.E. Housman biography

January's featured poem

 

The Penny Blog's featured poem for January 2022:

A January Morning, by Archibald Lampman

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/01/january-morning-archibald-lampman.html

Penny's Top 20 / December 2021

         

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in December 2021:

  1.  Christmas Bells, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  2.  A Midwinter Night's Eve, George J. Dance

  3.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  4.  Once in royal David's city, Cecil Frances Alexander

  5.  Season of Change, George Sulzbach 
  6.  Skating, William Wordsworth
  7.  Christmas, 1860, Aubrey de Vere

  8.  Change, Raymond Knister
  9.  Ritual Memory, Will Dockery
10.  December: A pastoral poem, William Perfect

11.  Approach of Winter, William Carlos Williams
12.  New Year's Eve, 1913, Gordon Bottomley
13.  With trembling fingers did we weave, Alfred Tennyson
14.  Winter Song, Wilfred Owen
15.  Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollet
16.  A Miracle, George J. Dance
17.  The World's Body, AE Reiff

18.  Large Red Man Reading, Wallace Stevens
19.  November, F.W. Harvey

20. A Morning Song (for the first day of Spring), Eleanor Farjeon

Source: Blogger, "Stats"