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Best Famous February Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous February poems. This is a select list of the best famous February poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous February poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of february poems.

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

The Invitation

BEST and brightest come away ¡ª 
Fairer far than this fair day  
Which like thee to those in sorrow 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 5 
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring Through the winter wandering Found it seems the halcyon morn To hoar February born; 10 Bending from heaven in azure mirth It kiss'd the forehead of the earth And smiled upon the silent sea And bade the frozen streams be free And waked to music all their fountains 15 And breathed upon the frozen mountains And like a prophetess of May Strew'd flowers upon the barren way Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest dear.
20 Away away from men and towns To the wild woods and the downs¡ª To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music lest it should not find 25 An echo in another's mind While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart.
Radiant Sister of the Day Awake! arise! and come away! 30 To the wild woods and the plains To the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green and ivy dun 35 Round stems that never kiss the sun; Where the lawns and pastures be And the sandhills of the sea; Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets 40 And wind-flowers and violets Which yet join not scent to hue Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east dim and blind 45 And the blue noon is over us And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet Where the earth and ocean meet And all things seem only one 50 In the universal Sun.


by | |

Thirty Days Hath September


Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
February has twenty-eight alone,
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting leap-year, that's the time
When February's days are twenty-nine.


by Barry Tebb | |

TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

 This is one spring you will not see.
The fifty roses of your spray Smelt soft across that February day Where trees, heavy as only crematoria Can bear, sloped down the fallen banks To where we waited in the chapel, me Clutching Father Kevin’s hand, remembering My given grace and faith renewed In answer to my prayers, Brenda in tears, And Joyce the sister of my years, Kim And the others from the Home, where five Long years you waited for this day, Of all, the most important.
Visits, letters, Phone calls far too few, until we knew When your last days began and for sixteen Hours we sat, but still your will to live Went on until our backs were turned And then you, too, had gone.


More great poems below...

by Edward Thomas | |

Celandine

 Thinking of her had saddened me at first,
Until I saw the sun on the celandines lie
Redoubled, and she stood up like a flame,
A living thing, not what before I nursed,
The shadow I was growing to love almost,
The phantom, not the creature with bright eye
That I had thought never to see, once lost.
She found the celandines of February Always before us all.
Her nature and name Were like those flowers, and now immediately For a short swift eternity back she came, Beautiful, happy, simply as when she wore Her brightest bloom among the winter hues Of all the world; and I was happy too, Seeing the blossoms and the maiden who Had seen them with me Februarys before, Bending to them as in and out she trod And laughed, with locks sweeping the mossy sod.
But this was a dream; the flowers were not true, Until I stooped to pluck from the grass there One of five petals and I smelt the juice Which made me sigh, remembering she was no more, Gone like a never perfectly recalled air.


by Edward Thomas | |

The Manor Farm

 THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills 
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road 
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; Nor did I value that thin gliding beam More than a pretty February thing Till I came down to the old manor farm, And church and yew-tree opposite, in age Its equals and in size.
The church and yew And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw.
The steep farm roof, With tiles duskily glowing, entertained The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof White pigeons nestled.
There was no sound but one.
Three cart horses were looking over a gate Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught And smiled quietly.
But 'twas not winter-- Rather a season of bliss unchangeable, Awakened from farm and church where it had lain Safe under tile and latch for ages since This England, Old already, was called Merry.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Calendar of Sonnets: February

 Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; 
And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; 
No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, 
And willow stems grow daily red and bright.
These are days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will: Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight, Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed The ardent summer's joy to have and taste; Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed, To recon clear the new life's sterner need; Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed!


by Henry Van Dyke | |

The Oxford Thrushes

 FEBRUARY, 1917 

I never thought again to hear
The Oxford thrushes singing clear,
Amid the February rain,
Their sweet, indomitable strain.
A wintry vapor lightly spreads Among the trees, and round the beds Where daffodil and jonquil sleep, Only the snowdrop wakes to weep.
It is not springtime yet.
Alas, What dark, tempestuous days must pass, Till England's trial by battle cease, And summer comes again with peace.
The lofty halls, the tranquil towers, Where Learning in untroubled hours Held her high court, serene in fame, Are lovely still, yet not the same.
The novices in fluttering gown No longer fill the ancient town, But fighting men in khaki drest-- And in the Schools the wounded rest.
Ah, far away, 'neath stranger skies Full many a son of Oxford lies, And whispers from his warrior grave, "I died to keep the faith you gave.
" The mother mourns, but does not fail, Her courage and her love prevail O'er sorrow, and her spirit hears The promise of triumphant years.
Then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain Your sweet indomitable strain.
Ye bring a word from God on high And voices in our hearts reply.


by Weldon Kees | |

The End Of The Library

 When the coal
Gave out, we began
Burning the books, one by one;
First the set
Of Bulwer-Lytton
And then the Walter Scott.
They gave a lot of warmth.
Toward the end, in February, flames Consumed the Greek Tragedians and Baudelaire, Proust, Robert Burton And the Po-Chu-i.
Ice Thickened on the sills.
More for the sake of the cat, We said, than for ourselves, Who huddled, shivering, Against the stove All winter long.


by Jane Kenyon | |

February: Thinking of Flowers

 Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.
Nothing but white--the air, the light; only one brown milkweed pod bobbing in the gully, smallest brown boat on the immense tide.
A single green sprouting thing would restore me.
.
.
.
Then think of the tall delphinium, swaying, or the bee when it comes to the tongue of the burgundy lily.


by David Lehman | |

February 23

 Light rain is falling in Central Park
but not on Upper Fifth Avenue or Central Park West
where sun and sky are yellow and blue
Winds are gusting on Washington Square
through the arches and on to LaGuardia Place
but calm is the corner of 8th Street and Second Avenue
which reminds me of something John Ashbery said
about his poem "Crazy Weather" he said
he was in favor of all kinds of weather
just so long as it's genuine weather
which is always unusually bad, unusually
good, or unusually indifferent,
since there isn't really any norm for weather
When he was a boy his mother met a friend
who said, "Isn't this funny weather?"

It was one of his earliest memories


by Philip Levine | |

Bitterness

 Here in February, the fine 
dark branches of the almond 
begin to sprout tiny clusters 
of leaves, sticky to the touch.
Not far off, about the length of my morning shadow, the grass is littered with the petals of the plum that less than a week ago blazed, a living candle in the hand of earth.
I was living far off two years ago, fifteen floors above 119th Street when I heard a love of my young manhood had died mysteriously in a public ward.
I did not go out into the streets to walk among the cold, sullen poor of Harlem, I did not turn toward the filthy window to question a distant pale sky.
I did not do anything.
The grass is coming back, some patches already bright, though at this hour still silvered with dew.
By noon I can stand sweating in the free air, spading the difficult clay for the bare roots of a pear or apple that will give flower and fruit longer than I care to think about.


by Anne Sexton | |

The Balance Wheel

 Where I waved at the sky
And waited your love through a February sleep,
I saw birds swinging in, watched them multiply
Into a tree, weaving on a branch, cradling a keep
In the arms of April sprung from the south to occupy
This slow lap of land, like cogs of some balance wheel.
I saw them build the air, with that motion birds feel.
Where I wave at the sky And understand love, knowing our August heat, I see birds pulling past the dim frosted thigh Of Autumn, unlatched from the nest, and wing-beat For the south, making their high dots across the sky, Like beauty spots marking a still perfect cheek.
I see them bend the air, slipping away, for what birds seek.


by Anne Sexton | |

The Truth the Dead Know

 For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June.
I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape.
I cultivate myself where the sun gutters from the sky, where the sea swings in like an iron gate and we touch.
In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones from the whitehearted water and when we touch we enter touch entirely.
No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats.
They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped.
They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.


by Anne Sexton | |

The Truth The Dead Know

 For my mother, born March 1902, died March 1959 
and my father, born February 1900, died June 1959

Gone, I say and walk from church, 
refusing the stiff procession to the grave, 
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June.
I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape.
I cultivate myself where the sun gutters from the sky, where the sea swings in like an iron gate and we touch.
In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones from the whitehearted water and when we touch we enter touch entirely.
No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in their stone boats.
They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped.
They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.


by Anne Sexton | |

For My Lover Returning To His Wife

 She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you and cast up from your childhood, cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
vA luxury.
A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that.
She is your have to have, has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment.
She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast, sat by the potter's wheel at midday, set forth three children under the moon, three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, done this with her legs spread out in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall after supper, their heads privately bent, two legs protesting, person to person, her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission -- for the fuse inside her, throbbing angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her and the burying of her wound -- for the burying of her small red wound alive -- for the pale flickering flare under her ribs, for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse, for the mother's knee, for the stocking, for the garter belt, for the call -- the curious call when you will burrow in arms and breasts and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.


by Ogden Nash | |

One Third Of The Calendar

 In January everything freezes.
We have two children.
Both are she'ses.
This is our January rule: One girl in bed, and one in school.
In February the blizzard whirls.
We own a pair of little girls.
Blessings upon of each the head ---- The one in school and the one in bed.
March is the month of cringe and bluster.
Each of our children has a sister.
They cling together like Hansel and Gretel, With their noses glued to the benzoin kettle.
April is made of impetuous waters And doctors looking down throats of daughters.
If we had a son too, and a thoroughbred, We'd have a horse, And a boy, And two girls In bed.


by Boris Pasternak | |

Winter Night

 It snowed and snowed ,the whole world over,
Snow swept the world from end to end.
A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
As during summer midges swarm To beat their wings against a flame Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed To beat against the window pane The blizzard sculptured on the glass Designs of arrows and of whorls.
A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
Distorted shadows fell Upon the lighted ceiling: Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs- Of crossed destiny.
Two tiny shoes fell to the floor And thudded.
A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears Upon a dress.
All things vanished within The snowy murk-white,hoary.
A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
A corner draft fluttered the flame And the white fever of temptation Upswept its angel wings that cast A cruciform shadow It snowed hard throughout the month Of February, and almost constantly A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.


by Norman Dubie | |

February: The Boy Breughel

 The birches stand in their beggar's row:
Each poor tree
Has had its wrists nearly
Torn from the clear sleeves of bone,
These icy trees
Are hanging by their thumbs
Under a sun
That will begin to heal them soon,
Each will climb out
Of its own blue, oval mouth;
The river groans,
Two birds call out from the woods

And a fox crosses through snow
Down a hill; then, he runs,
He has overcome something white
Beside a white bush, he shakes
It twice, and as he turns
For the woods, the blood in the snow

Looks like the red fox,
At a distance, running down the hill:
A white rabbit in his mouth killed
By the fox in snow
Is killed over and over as just
Two colors, now, on a winter hill:

Two colors! Red and white.
A barber's bowl! Two colors like the peppers In the windows Of the town below the hill.
Smoke comes From the chimneys.
Everything is still.
Ice in the river begins to move, And a boy in a red shirt who woke A moment ago Watches from his window The street where an ox Who's broken out of his hut Stands in the fresh snow Staring cross-eyed at the boy Who smiles and looks out Across the roof to the hill; And the sun is reaching down Into the woods Where the smoky red fox still Eats his kill.
Two colors.
Just two colors! A sunrise.
The snow.


by Robert Francis | |

Waxwings

 Four Tao philosophers as cedar waxwings
chat on a February berry bush
in sun, and I am one.
Such merriment and such sobriety-- the small wild fruit on the tall stalk-- was this not always my true style? Above an elegance of snow, beneath a silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four birds.
Can you mistake us? To sun, to feast, and to converse and all together--for this I have abandoned all my other lives.


by Robert Graves | |

To Robert Nichols

 (From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: “I am just finishing my ‘Faun’s Holiday.
’ I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.
”) Here by a snowbound river In scrapen holes we shiver, And like old bitterns we Boom to you plaintively: Robert, how can I rhyme Verses for your desire— Sleek fauns and cherry-time, Vague music and green trees, Hot sun and gentle breeze, England in June attire, And life born young again, For your gay goatish brute Drunk with warm melody Singing on beds of thyme With red and rolling eye, Waking with wanton lute All the Devonian plain, Lips dark with juicy stain, Ears hung with bobbing fruit? Why should I keep him time? Why in this cold and rime, Where even to dream is pain? No, Robert, there’s no reason: Cherries are out of season, Ice grips at branch and root, And singing birds are mute.


by Rg Gregory | |

images of snow - february 1996

 snow is a thousand flowers
the chinese probably said
hundreds and thousands this morning
drop their garlands on my head
last night the festoons started
long before we went to bed

snow is a white-furred rabbit
the chinese probably wrote
hedgerows and fields this morning
wear a similar fluffy coat
last night the winter danced back
with a white fur round its throat

snow is a treacherous fox-face
the chinese probably thought
it lurks in wait this morning
for the weak and overwrought
last night it laughed its head off
loving the fear it's brought


by Rg Gregory | |

snowdrop blaze

 from late december onwards the day comes back
but not till february do we see those glimpses
that let us take deep darkness off the rack
and shake it free of lethargy that cramps us
through those dim months we’re made amanuensis
to what loud rain and bitter spells dictate
we seek bed early and must get up late

long january’s puffing in the right direction
but its early mornings keep that midnight feel
it still is subject to the date’s dejection
but once it’s over – see how light can steal
through cracks of trees and curtains - beneath the keel
of the eastern skyline (rocking like a boat
surprised so early to find itself afloat)

and from the earth presentiments are rustling
as cheeky snowdrops hoist their periscopes
within a week a mass of them is bustling
and white becomes the flavour of the slopes
and people flock invigorating hopes
seasons (they say) have forfeited effect on
one snowdrop-look and instantly dejection

is whipped (though biting winds and brooding skies)
away from the pure white cream the eyes are lapping
a frisson blooms as every bloodstream tries
to come to terms with its own natural sapping
and from the earth reorganise that mapping
that reaches out to plot those far endeavours
a spirit yearns for (wishing its forevers)

so walk away – no spread of simple flowers
can change the limitations we must live with
snowdrops come and go – our fickle powers
play havoc with the talents we can thrive with
it’s just that february comes and lo - forthwith
for one brief snowdrop moment there’s a blaze
that lights the world up with its splash of praise


by Dale Harcombe | |

Bruise blue

 Frail as smoke, she drifts
  through the crowded train, 
  bringing with her 
  the cold ashes of poverty.
Without a word, her bruise-blue eyes try to niggle each passenger to part with coins or a note.
The sign pleads her story: Three children in foster care.
Like promises of happier times, some passengers toss hard-edged confetti at her, before hiding behind newspapers or over-loud conversations.
Others dismiss her like an errant child with swift, silent shakes of their heads.
I look at her canescent face and know I have seen her before, on a grey, Sydney day in George Street.
‘Homeless, hungry, and cold’ her sign read then, as she curled like a cloud on the footpath near Town Hall.
In the dusk of a blustery day, people, toting bags emblazoned with designer labels, walked past.
Their gaze sliding away from her like water, they turned toward the nimbus of lights across the street, glittering like angels in the trees.
I walked on too, then wished I had turned back.
But the tide flowed against me.
With nothing else to give I came home and wrote a poem.
© May 2003 Dale Harcombe First published Artlook February 2005


by Joseph Brodsky | |

Tsushima Screen

The perilous blue sun follows with its slant eyes
masts of the shuddered grove steaming up to capsize
in the frozen straits of Epiphany.
February has fewer days than the other months; therefore it's morecruel than the rest.
Dearest it's more sound to wrap up our sailing round the globe with habitual naval grace moving your cot to the fireplace where our dreadnought is going under in great smoke.
Only fire can grasp a winter! Golder unharnessed stallions in the chimney dye their manes to more corvine shades as they near the finish and the dark room fills with the plaintive incessant chirring of a naked lounging grasshopper one cannot cup in fingers.


by Anne Bronte | |

In Memory of a Happy Day in February

 Blessed be Thou for all the joy
My soul has felt today!
O let its memory stay with me
And never pass away! 
I was alone, for those I loved
Were far away from me,
The sun shone on the withered grass,
The wind blew fresh and free.
Was it the smile of early spring That made my bosom glow? 'Twas sweet, but neither sun nor wind Could raise my spirit so.
Was it some feeling of delight, All vague and undefined? No, 'twas a rapture deep and strong, Expanding in the mind! Was it a sanguine view of life And all its transient bliss­- A hope of bright prosperity? O no, it was not this! It was a glimpse of truth divine Unto my spirit given Illumined by a ray of light That shone direct from heaven! I felt there was a God on high By whom all things were made.
I saw His wisdom and his power In all his works displayed.
But most throughout the moral world I saw his glory shine; I saw His wisdom infinite, His mercy all divine.
Deep secrets of his providence In darkness long concealed Were brought to my delighted eyes And graciously revealed.
But while I wondered and adored His wisdom so divine, I did not tremble at his power, I felt that God was mine.
I knew that my Redeemer lived, I did not fear to die; Full sure that I should rise again To immortality.
I longed to view that bliss divine Which eye hath never seen, To see the glories of his face Without the veil between.