Our latest winter poetry selection
Our poetry is chosen from the work of both well-known and new poets, and assessed by a practising psychotherapist for suitability for patients waiting to see their doctor. We hope you enjoy our latest winter selection.
We watched the crows
We watched the crows,
At a little distance from us,
Become white as silver
As they flew in the sunshine;
And when they went still further
They looked like shapes of water
Passing over the green fields.
Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855)
We watched the crows,
At a little distance from us,
Become white as silver
As they flew in the sunshine;
And when they went still further
They looked like shapes of water
Passing over the green fields.
Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855)
A Bird-Scene at a Rural Dwelling
When the inmate stirs, the birds retire discreetly
From the window-ledge, whereon they whistled sweetly
And on the step of the door,
In the misty morning hoar;
But now the dweller is up they flee
To the crooked neighbouring codlin-tree;
And when he comes fully forth they seek the garden,
And call from the lofty costard, as pleading pardon
For shouting so near before
In their joy at being alive:--
Meanwhile the hammering clock within goes five.
I know a domicile of brown and green,
Where for a hundred summers there have been
Just such enactments, just such daybreaks seen.
Thomas Hardy ( 1840-1928)
When the inmate stirs, the birds retire discreetly
From the window-ledge, whereon they whistled sweetly
And on the step of the door,
In the misty morning hoar;
But now the dweller is up they flee
To the crooked neighbouring codlin-tree;
And when he comes fully forth they seek the garden,
And call from the lofty costard, as pleading pardon
For shouting so near before
In their joy at being alive:--
Meanwhile the hammering clock within goes five.
I know a domicile of brown and green,
Where for a hundred summers there have been
Just such enactments, just such daybreaks seen.
Thomas Hardy ( 1840-1928)
In an Old Barn
Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay
O'erbrims the mows beyond the time-warped eaves,
Up to the rafters where the spider weaves,
Though few flies wander his secluded way.
Through a high chink one lonely golden ray,
Wherein the dust is dancing, slants unstirred.
In the dry hush some rustlings light are heard,
Of winter-hidden mice at furtive play.
Far down, the cattle in their shadowed stalls,
Nose-deep in clover fodder's meadowy scent,
Forget the snows that whelm their pasture streams,
The frost that bites the world beyond their walls.
Warm housed, they dream of summer, well content
In day-long contemplation of their dreams.
Sir Charles G D Roberts (1860-1943)
Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay
O'erbrims the mows beyond the time-warped eaves,
Up to the rafters where the spider weaves,
Though few flies wander his secluded way.
Through a high chink one lonely golden ray,
Wherein the dust is dancing, slants unstirred.
In the dry hush some rustlings light are heard,
Of winter-hidden mice at furtive play.
Far down, the cattle in their shadowed stalls,
Nose-deep in clover fodder's meadowy scent,
Forget the snows that whelm their pasture streams,
The frost that bites the world beyond their walls.
Warm housed, they dream of summer, well content
In day-long contemplation of their dreams.
Sir Charles G D Roberts (1860-1943)
The Herding
Quietly, quietly in from the fields
Of the grey Atlantic the billows come,
Like sheep to the fold.
Shorn by the rocks of fleecy foam,
They sink on the brown seaweed at home;
And a bell, like that of a bellwether,
Is scarcely heard from the buoy --
Save when they suddenly stumble together
In herded hurrying joy,
Upon its guidance: then soft music
From it is tolled.
Far out in the murk that follows them in
Is heard the call of the fog-horn's voice,
Like a shepherd's — low.
And the strays as if waiting it seem to pause
And lift their heads and listen — because
It is sweet from wandering ways to be driven,
When we have fearless breasts,
When all that we strayed for has been given,
When no want molests
Us more — no need of the tide's ebbing
And tide’s flow.
Cale Young Rice ( 1872-1943)
Quietly, quietly in from the fields
Of the grey Atlantic the billows come,
Like sheep to the fold.
Shorn by the rocks of fleecy foam,
They sink on the brown seaweed at home;
And a bell, like that of a bellwether,
Is scarcely heard from the buoy --
Save when they suddenly stumble together
In herded hurrying joy,
Upon its guidance: then soft music
From it is tolled.
Far out in the murk that follows them in
Is heard the call of the fog-horn's voice,
Like a shepherd's — low.
And the strays as if waiting it seem to pause
And lift their heads and listen — because
It is sweet from wandering ways to be driven,
When we have fearless breasts,
When all that we strayed for has been given,
When no want molests
Us more — no need of the tide's ebbing
And tide’s flow.
Cale Young Rice ( 1872-1943)
From After Storm
Was there a wind?
Tap... tap...
Night pads upon the snow
with moccasined feet...
and it is still... so still...
an eagle's feather
might fall like a stone.
Could there have been a storm...
mad-tossing golden mane on the neck of the wind...
tearing up the sky...
loose-flapping like a tent
about the ice-capped stars?
Cool, sheer and motionless
the frosted pines
are jeweled with a million flaming points
that fling their beauty up in long white sheaves
till they catch hands with stars.
Could there have been a wind
that haled them by the hair....
and blinding
blue-forked
flowers of the lightning
in their leaves?
Lola Ridge (1873 -1941)
Was there a wind?
Tap... tap...
Night pads upon the snow
with moccasined feet...
and it is still... so still...
an eagle's feather
might fall like a stone.
Could there have been a storm...
mad-tossing golden mane on the neck of the wind...
tearing up the sky...
loose-flapping like a tent
about the ice-capped stars?
Cool, sheer and motionless
the frosted pines
are jeweled with a million flaming points
that fling their beauty up in long white sheaves
till they catch hands with stars.
Could there have been a wind
that haled them by the hair....
and blinding
blue-forked
flowers of the lightning
in their leaves?
Lola Ridge (1873 -1941)
The Gulls
Soft is the sky in the mist-kirtled east,
Light is abroad on the sea,
All of the heaven with silver is fleeced,
Holding the sunrise in fee.
Lo! with a flash and uplifting of wings
Down where the long ripples break,
Cometh a bevy of glad-hearted things,
'Tis morn, for the gulls are awake.
Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)
Soft is the sky in the mist-kirtled east,
Light is abroad on the sea,
All of the heaven with silver is fleeced,
Holding the sunrise in fee.
Lo! with a flash and uplifting of wings
Down where the long ripples break,
Cometh a bevy of glad-hearted things,
'Tis morn, for the gulls are awake.
Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)
Winter Bird
My bird, my darling,
Calling through the cold of afternoon--
Those round, bright notes,
Each one so perfect
Shaken from the other and yet
Hanging together in flashing clusters!
‘The small soft flowers and the ripe fruit
All are gathered.
It is the season now of nuts and berries
And round, bright, flashing drops
In the frozen grass.’
Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)
My bird, my darling,
Calling through the cold of afternoon--
Those round, bright notes,
Each one so perfect
Shaken from the other and yet
Hanging together in flashing clusters!
‘The small soft flowers and the ripe fruit
All are gathered.
It is the season now of nuts and berries
And round, bright, flashing drops
In the frozen grass.’
Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)
And shall we have snow
to soften angles and edges,
drape simple homes in cloaks of holiness,
numb roads to whisper of heaven-sent,
muffle our busyness, cushion our weariness,
So when we step out into it
we are bound by its light
-and are different.
Eve Jackson (1949- )
to soften angles and edges,
drape simple homes in cloaks of holiness,
numb roads to whisper of heaven-sent,
muffle our busyness, cushion our weariness,
So when we step out into it
we are bound by its light
-and are different.
Eve Jackson (1949- )
Haiku
at my feet
On the busy pavement -
A collar dove carrying straw
Denise Bennett (1950 - )
at my feet
On the busy pavement -
A collar dove carrying straw
Denise Bennett (1950 - )
Editor: Helen Lee.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2023. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2023. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
