In February / Frank Dempster Sherman

In February

Like mimic meteors the snow
In silence out of heaven sifts.
And wanton winds that wake and blow
Pile high their monumental drifts.

And looking through the window-panes
I see, 'mid loops and angles crossed,
The dainty geometric skeins
Drawn by the fingers of the Frost.

'Tis here at dawn where comes his love,
All eager and with smile benign,
A golden Sunbeam from above,
To read the Frost's gay valentine.

~~

Frank Dempster Sherman (1860-1916)
From Madrigals and Catches, 1887

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

 
Frank Dempster Sherman biography

Alexandr Frolov, Frosted Patterns on a Window, 2011. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

February / H. Cordelia Ray

from The Procession of the Seasons

February

    The icicles upon the pane
    Are busy architects; they leave
What temples and what chiseled forms
    Of leaf and flower. Then believe
That though the woods be brown and bare,
    And sunbeams peep through cloudy veils,
Though tempests houwl through leaden skies,
    The Springtime never fails!

~~
H. Cordelia Ray (1852-1916)
from Poems, 1910

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[March]

H. Cordelia Ray biography

Alexandr frolov, Frost on window, 2011. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

The Frosted Pane / Charles G.D. Roberts

The Frosted Pane

One night came Winter noiselessly, and leaned
    Against my window-pane.
In the deep stillness of his heart convened
    The ghosts of all his slain.

Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth,
    And fugitives of grass,—
White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth,
    He drew them on the glass.

~~
Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
from The Book of the Native, 1896

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

Charles G.D. Roberts biography

Alexandr Frolov, Frosted Patterns on a Window, 2011. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

A Town Window / John Drinkwater

       
A Town Window

Beyond my window in the night
      Is but a drab inglorious street,
Yet there the frost and clean starlight
      As over Warwick woods are sweet.

Under the grey drift of the town
      The crocus works among the mould
As eagerly as those that crown
      The Warwick spring in flame and gold.

And when the tramway down the hill
      Across the cobbles moans and rings,
There is about my window-sill
      The tumult of a thousand wings.

---
by John Drinkwater
from Swords and Ploughshares, 1915

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

John Drinkwater biography