Winter 2023
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.
So Breaks The Sun
So breaks the sun earth’s rugged chains,
Wherein rude winter bound her veins;
So grows both stream and source of price,
That lately fettered were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
And coloured coats the roughest meads,
And all get vigour, youth and sprite,
That are but looked on by his light.
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)
So breaks the sun earth’s rugged chains,
Wherein rude winter bound her veins;
So grows both stream and source of price,
That lately fettered were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
And coloured coats the roughest meads,
And all get vigour, youth and sprite,
That are but looked on by his light.
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)
From The Villager’s Verse-Book The Blacksmith
How cheerful in the winter’s night,
As down the lane I stray;
The blacksmith’s forge shoots out its light,
And shines across the way!
The smith his labouring bellows blows,
And now his stroke repeats;
Beats the red iron, as it glows,
And shapes it as he beats.
While, flash! The frequent sparkles fly,
And tongs are hissing red;
Content and cheerful industry
Sweeten his daily bread.
William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850)
How cheerful in the winter’s night,
As down the lane I stray;
The blacksmith’s forge shoots out its light,
And shines across the way!
The smith his labouring bellows blows,
And now his stroke repeats;
Beats the red iron, as it glows,
And shapes it as he beats.
While, flash! The frequent sparkles fly,
And tongs are hissing red;
Content and cheerful industry
Sweeten his daily bread.
William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850)
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)
From The Garden (From Gilbert)
Above the city hung the moon,
Right o’er a plot of ground
Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced
With lofty walls around:
‘Twas Gilbert’s garden, there to-night
Awhile he walked alone;
And, tired with sedentary toil,
Mused where the moonlight shone.
This garden, in a city-heart,
Lay still as houseless wild,
Though many-windowed mansion fronts
Were round it; closely piled;
But thick their walls, and those within
Lived lives by noise unstirred;
Like wafting of an angel’s wing,
Time’s flight by them was heard.
Some soft piano-notes alone
Were sweet as faintly given,
Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth
With song that winter-even.
The city’s many mingled sounds
Rose like the hum of ocean;
They rather lulled the heart than roused
Its pulse to faster motion.
Charlotte Bronte (1816-1855)
To a Thrush
In the hour before the dawn,
In the hour when dreams are true,
When the moonlight’s on the lawn
And the grass is hoar with dew,
Ere the clarion cock’s astir
Or the cattle in the byre--
Come and perch upon the fir,
Come and take the topmost spire!
I shall wake and, through the pane,
I thy silhouette shall see,
I shall hear thy magic strain,
Rapturous thrush!— and bless thy tree.
Never thrilled through mortal ear
Earthly music more divine;
Never tree-top soared so near
God’s own Paradise as thine!
Let me, till the moon has set
And the darkness stills thy strain,
Listen; then, with eyelids wet,
Turn to happy sleep again.
William Canton (1845-1926)
In the hour before the dawn,
In the hour when dreams are true,
When the moonlight’s on the lawn
And the grass is hoar with dew,
Ere the clarion cock’s astir
Or the cattle in the byre--
Come and perch upon the fir,
Come and take the topmost spire!
I shall wake and, through the pane,
I thy silhouette shall see,
I shall hear thy magic strain,
Rapturous thrush!— and bless thy tree.
Never thrilled through mortal ear
Earthly music more divine;
Never tree-top soared so near
God’s own Paradise as thine!
Let me, till the moon has set
And the darkness stills thy strain,
Listen; then, with eyelids wet,
Turn to happy sleep again.
William Canton (1845-1926)
The Shepherd Wind
When hills and plains are powdered white,
And bitter cold the north wind blows,
Upon my window in the night
A fairy-garden grows.
Here poppies that no hand hath sown
Bloom white as foam upon the sea,
And elfin bells to earth unknown
Hold frost-bound melody.
And here are blossoms like to stars
Tangled in nets of silver lace--
My very breath their beauty mars,
Or stirs them from their place.
Perchance the echoes of old songs
Found here a resting place at last
With drifting perfume that belongs
To roses of the past.
Or all the moonbeams that were lost
On summer nights the world forgets
May here be prisoned by the frost
With souls of violets.
The wind doth shepherd many things--
And when the nights are long and cold,
Who knows how strange a flock he brings
All safely to the fold.
Virna Sheard (1862-1943)
When hills and plains are powdered white,
And bitter cold the north wind blows,
Upon my window in the night
A fairy-garden grows.
Here poppies that no hand hath sown
Bloom white as foam upon the sea,
And elfin bells to earth unknown
Hold frost-bound melody.
And here are blossoms like to stars
Tangled in nets of silver lace--
My very breath their beauty mars,
Or stirs them from their place.
Perchance the echoes of old songs
Found here a resting place at last
With drifting perfume that belongs
To roses of the past.
Or all the moonbeams that were lost
On summer nights the world forgets
May here be prisoned by the frost
With souls of violets.
The wind doth shepherd many things--
And when the nights are long and cold,
Who knows how strange a flock he brings
All safely to the fold.
Virna Sheard (1862-1943)
Harvest
Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;
Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold;
A heron’s far flight to a roost somewhere;
The twitter of killdees keen in the air;
The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam
On the last load home.
There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke
Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.
The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her
Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,
And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam
On the last load home.
John Charles McNeill (1874-1907)
Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;
Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold;
A heron’s far flight to a roost somewhere;
The twitter of killdees keen in the air;
The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam
On the last load home.
There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke
Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.
The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her
Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,
And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam
On the last load home.
John Charles McNeill (1874-1907)
January Dusk
Austere and clad in sombre robes of grey,
With hands upfolded and with silent wings,
In unimpassioned mystery the day
Passes; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.
The dust of night is tangled in the boughs
Of leafless lime and lilac, and the pine
Grows blacker, and the star upon the brows
Of sleep is set in heaven for a sign.
Earth’s little weary peoples fall on peace
And dream of breaking buds and blossoming.
Of primrose airs, of days of large increase,
And all the coloured retinue of spring.
John Drinkwater (1882-1937)
Austere and clad in sombre robes of grey,
With hands upfolded and with silent wings,
In unimpassioned mystery the day
Passes; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.
The dust of night is tangled in the boughs
Of leafless lime and lilac, and the pine
Grows blacker, and the star upon the brows
Of sleep is set in heaven for a sign.
Earth’s little weary peoples fall on peace
And dream of breaking buds and blossoming.
Of primrose airs, of days of large increase,
And all the coloured retinue of spring.
John Drinkwater (1882-1937)
On Taking the High Road: A Plea for Optimism
A shadow dances in your sleep
You are a breed apart
The blossomed way is sweet but steep
Where doves fly from your heart
Then doves beyond the rooftops: reach
In clearer air they climb
Their wings elude the arm of speech
And mock the flight of time
Though darkened paths and misted vales
Be the first ways we find
A dance flames in neglected sails
Shadows ignite the mind
A shadow dances in your sleep
Your joy is deep and wild
The blossomed way though dour and steep
Is merciful and mild
Alan Cohen (1950 - )
A shadow dances in your sleep
You are a breed apart
The blossomed way is sweet but steep
Where doves fly from your heart
Then doves beyond the rooftops: reach
In clearer air they climb
Their wings elude the arm of speech
And mock the flight of time
Though darkened paths and misted vales
Be the first ways we find
A dance flames in neglected sails
Shadows ignite the mind
A shadow dances in your sleep
Your joy is deep and wild
The blossomed way though dour and steep
Is merciful and mild
Alan Cohen (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.