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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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by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

The Many

 Greene, garlanded with February's few flowers
Ere March came in with Marlowe's rapturous rage;
Peele, from whose hand the sweet white locks of age
Took the mild chaplet woven of honored hours;
Nash, laughing hard; Lodge, flushed from lyric bowers;
And Lilly, a goldfinch in a twisted cage
Fed by some gay great lady's pettish page
Till short sweet songs gush clear like short spring showers;
Kid, whose grim sport still gamboled over graves;
And Chettle, in whose fresh funereal verse
Weeps Marian yet on Robin's wildwood hearse;
Cooke, whose light boat of song one soft breath saves,
Sighed from a maiden's amorous mouth averse;
Live likewise ye--Time takes not you for slaves.


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 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 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 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 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 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 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.


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 Robert Burns | |

153. Inscription for the Headstone of Fergusson the Poet

 NO 1 sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
 “No storied urn nor animated bust;”
This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way,
 To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust.
ADDITIONAL STANZASShe mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate; Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fired, Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state, And, thankless, starv’d what they so much admired.
This tribute, with a tear, now gives A brother Bard-he can no more bestow: But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, A nobler monument than Art can shew.
Note 1.
The stone was erected at Burns’ expenses in February-March, 1789.
[back]


by Emily Dickinson | |

White as an Indian Pipe

 White as an Indian Pipe
Red as a Cardinal Flower
Fabulous as a Moon at Noon
February Hour --


by Emily Dickinson | |

No Brigadier throughout the Year

 No Brigadier throughout the Year
So civic as the Jay --
A Neighbor and a Warrior too
With shrill felicity
Pursuing Winds that censure us
A February Day,
The Brother of the Universe
Was never blown away --
The Snow and he are intimate --
I've often seem them play
When Heaven looked upon us all
With such severity
I felt apology were due
To an insulted sky
Whose pompous frown was Nutriment
To their Temerity --
The Pillow of this daring Head
Is pungent Evergreens --
His Larder -- terse and Militant --
Unknown -- refreshing things --
His Character -- a Tonic --
His future -- a Dispute --
Unfair an Immortality
That leaves this Neighbor out --


by Emily Dickinson | |

The Snow that never drifts --

 The Snow that never drifts --
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now --

So thorough in the Tree
At night beneath the star
That it was February's Foot
Experience would swear --

Like Winter as a Face
We stern and former knew
Repaired of all but Loneliness
By Nature's Alibit --

Were every storm so spice
The Value could not be --
We buy with contrast -- Pang is good
As near as memory --


by Emily Dickinson | |

Although I put away his life

 Although I put away his life --
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand

That sowed the flower, he preferred --
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path --
Or played his chosen tune --

On Lute the least -- the latest --
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe'er delighted it,
I never would let go --

The foot to bear his errand --
A little Boot I know --
Would leap abroad like Antelope --
With just the grant to do --

His weariest Commandment --
A sweeter to obey,
Than "Hide and Seek" --
Or skip to Flutes --
Or all Day, chase the Bee --

Your Servant, Sir, will weary --
The Surgeon, will not come --
The World, will have its own -- to do --
The Dust, will vex your Fame --

The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay --

That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me --
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first -- to me.


by Carl Sandburg | |

Hemlock and Cedar

 THIN sheets of blue smoke among white slabs … near the shingle mill … winter morning.
Falling of a dry leaf might be heard … circular steel tears through a log.
Slope of woodland … brown … soft … tinge of blue such as pansy eyes.
Farther, field fires … funnel of yellow smoke … spellings of other yellow in corn stubble.
Bobsled on a down-hill road … February snow mud … horses steaming … Oscar the driver sings ragtime under a spot of red seen a mile … the red wool yarn of Oscar’s stocking cap is seen from the shingle mill to the ridge of hemlock and cedar.


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.