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Best Famous January Poems

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

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Written by Pablo Neruda |

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

 I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume My heart with its cruel Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Written by Robert William Service |


 (16th January 1949)

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that's mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I'm a gay old boy
Though I be
My daughter thinks.
because I'm old (I'm not a crock, when all is said), I mustn't let my feet get cold, And should wear woollen socks in bed; A worsted night-cap too, forsooth! To humour her I won't contrive: A man is in his second youth When he is Seventy-and-five.
At four-score years old age begins, And not till then, I warn my wife; At eighty I'll recant my sins, And live a staid and sober life.
But meantime let me whoop it up, And tell the world that I'm alive: Fill to the brim the bubbly cup - Here's health to Seventy-and-five!

Written by Robert Frost |

Brown's Descent

 Brown lived at such a lofty farm
 That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
 In winter after half-past three.
And many must have seen him make His wild descent from there one night, ’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything, Describing rings of lantern light.
Between the house and barn the gale Got him by something he had on And blew him out on the icy crust That cased the world, and he was gone! Walls were all buried, trees were few: He saw no stay unless he stove A hole in somewhere with his heel.
But though repeatedly he strove And stamped and said things to himself, And sometimes something seemed to yield, He gained no foothold, but pursued His journey down from field to field.
Sometimes he came with arms outspread Like wings, revolving in the scene Upon his longer axis, and With no small dignity of mien.
Faster or slower as he chanced, Sitting or standing as he chose, According as he feared to risk His neck, or thought to spare his clothes, He never let the lantern drop.
And some exclaimed who saw afar The figures he described with it, ”I wonder what those signals are Brown makes at such an hour of night! He’s celebrating something strange.
I wonder if he’s sold his farm, Or been made Master of the Grange.
” He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked; He fell and made the lantern rattle (But saved the light from going out.
) So half-way down he fought the battle Incredulous of his own bad luck.
And then becoming reconciled To everything, he gave it up And came down like a coasting child.
“Well—I—be—” that was all he said, As standing in the river road, He looked back up the slippery slope (Two miles it was) to his abode.
Sometimes as an authority On motor-cars, I’m asked if I Should say our stock was petered out, And this is my sincere reply: Yankees are what they always were.
Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope Of getting home again because He couldn’t climb that slippery slope; Or even thought of standing there Until the January thaw Should take the polish off the crust.
He bowed with grace to natural law, And then went round it on his feet, After the manner of our stock; Not much concerned for those to whom, At that particular time o’clock, It must have looked as if the course He steered was really straight away From that which he was headed for— Not much concerned for them, I say: No more so than became a man— And politician at odd seasons.
I’ve kept Brown standing in the cold While I invested him with reasons; But now he snapped his eyes three times; Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s ’Bout out!” and took the long way home By road, a matter of several miles.

More great poems below...

Written by Wallace Stevens |

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter 
To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; 

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter 

Of the January sun; and not to think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves, 

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place 

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams |

A Celebration

 A middle-northern March, now as always— 
gusts from the South broken against cold winds— 
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide, 
it moves—not into April—into a second March, 

the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping 
upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree 
upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.
So we will put on our pink felt hat—new last year! —newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back the seasons—and let us walk to the orchid-house, see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow at the Palace.
Stop here, these are our oleanders.
When they are in bloom— You would waste words It is clearer to me than if the pink were on the branch.
It would be a searching in a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless, shows the very reason for their being.
And these the orange-trees, in blossom—no need to tell with this weight of perfume in the air.
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better see the white.
It is that very perfume has drawn the darkness down among the leaves.
Do I speak clearly enough? It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings— not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion of a sigh.
A too heavy sweetness proves its own caretaker.
And here are the orchids! Never having seen such gaiety I will read these flowers for you: This is an odd January, died—in Villon's time.
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom.
And this, a certain July from Iceland: a young woman of that place breathed it toward the South.
It took root there.
The color ran true but the plant is small.
This falling spray of snow-flakes is a handful of dead Februaries prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez of Guatemala.
Here's that old friend who went by my side so many years: this full, fragile head of veined lavender.
Oh that April that we first went with our stiff lusts leaving the city behind, out to the green hill— May, they said she was.
A hand for all of us: this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.
June is a yellow cup I'll not name; August the over-heavy one.
And here are— russet and shiny, all but March.
And March? Ah, March— Flowers are a tiresome pastime.
One has a wish to shake them from their pots root and stem, for the sun to gnaw.
Walk out again into the cold and saunter home to the fire.
This day has blossomed long enough.
I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze instead which will at least warm our hands and stir up the talk.
I think we have kept fair time.
Time is a green orchard.

Written by Patrick Kavanagh |


 We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea Of penance will charm back the luxury Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom The knowledge we stole but could not use.
And the newness that was in every stale thing When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking Of an old fool will awake for us and bring You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.
O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching For the difference that sets an old phrase burning- We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we'll hear it among decent men too Who barrow dung in gardens under trees, Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won't we be rich, my love and I, and God we shall not ask for reason's payment, The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges Nor analyse God's breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour- And Christ comes with a January flower.

Written by Richard Brautigan |

At the California Institute of Technology

 I don't care how God-damn smart
these guys are: I'm bored.
It's been raining like hell all day long and there's nothing to do.
Written January 24, 1967 while poet-in-residence at the California Institute of Technology.

Written by Eavan Boland |

Outside History

 These are outsiders, always.
These stars— these iron inklings of an Irish January, whose light happened thousands of years before our pain did; they are, they have always been outside history.
They keep their distance.
Under them remains a place where you found you were human, and a landscape in which you know you are mortal.
And a time to choose between them.
I have chosen: out of myth in history I move to be part of that ordeal who darkness is only now reaching me from those fields, those rivers, those roads clotted as firmaments with the dead.
How slowly they die as we kneel beside them, whisper in their ear.
And we are too late.
We are always too late.

Written by Edwin Morgan |


 My shadow --
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire so that I got up and looked out half-asleep at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below? Without fire Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging to my elbow, your eyes spoke what I could not grasp -- Nothing, if you were here! The wind of the early quiet merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets? Are you at my heels? Are you here? And I throw back the sheets.

Written by Emily Dickinson |

A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork

 A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork
Without a Revery --
And so encountering a Fly
This January Day
Jamaicas of Remembrance stir
That send me reeling in --
The moderate drinker of Delight
Does not deserve the spring --
Of juleps, part are the Jug
And more are in the joy --
Your connoisseur in Liquours
Consults the Bumble Bee --

Written by Ted Kooser |

In January

 Only one cell in the frozen hive of night
is lit, or so it seems to us:
this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,
its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.

Written by Sylvia Plath |

The Munich Mannequins

 Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb Where the yew trees blow like hydras, The tree of life and the tree of life Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love, The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me, Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles These mannequins lean tonight In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome, Naked and bald in their furs, Orange lollies on silver sticks, Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness, Nobody's about.
In the hotels Hands will be opening doors and setting Down shoes for a polish of carbon Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the domesticity of these windows, The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery, The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks Glittering Glittering and digesting Voicelessness.
The snow has no voice.
28 January 1963

Written by Robert Burns |

243. Elegy on the Year 1788

 FOR lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E’en let them die-for that they’re born:
But oh! prodigious to reflec’!
A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma’ space,
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou has left us!

 The Spanish empire’s tint a head,
And my auld teethless, Bawtie’s dead:
The tulyie’s teugh ’tween Pitt and Fox,
And ’tween our Maggie’s twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither’s something dour o’ treadin,
But better stuff ne’er claw’d a middin.
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, An’ cry till ye be hearse an’ roupit, For Eighty-eight, he wished you weel, An’ gied ye a’ baith gear an’ meal; E’en monc a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck! Ye bonie lasses, dight your e’en, For some o’ you hae tint a frien’; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen, What ye’ll ne’er hae to gie again.
Observe the very nowt an’ sheep, How dowff an’ daviely they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel’ does cry, For E’nburgh wells are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn, An’ no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now hast got thy Daddy’s chair; Nae handcuff’d, mizl’d, hap-shackl’d Regent, But, like himsel, a full free agent, Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man! As muckle better as you can.
January, 1, 1789.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe.
Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe.
His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas don’t want him around.
The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school.
Joe takes a piece of carpenter’s chalk, draws lines on the floor and piles stove wood to show where six regiments were slaughtered climbing a slope.
“Here they went” and “Here they went,” says Joe, and the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
The two Swede boys go downstairs with a big blur of guns, men, and hills in their heads.
They eat herring and potatoes and tell the family war is a wonder and soldiers are a wonder.
One breaks out with a cry at supper: I wish we had a war now and I could be a soldier.

Written by Thomas Carew |

The Spring

 Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost 
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost 
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream 
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream; 
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth, 
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth 
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree 
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring In triumph to the world the youthful spring.
The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.
Now all things smile; only my love doth lour; Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly Into the stall, doth now securely lie In open fields; and love no more is made By the fireside, but in the cooler shade Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep Under a sycamore, and all things keep Time with the season; only she doth carry June in her eyes, in her heart January.