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Best Famous Seasons Poems

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

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by Wallace Stevens | |

The River of Rivers in Connecticut

There is a great river this side of Stygia
Before one comes to the first black cataracts
And trees that lack the intelligence of trees.
In that river, far this side of Stygia, The mere flowing of the water is a gayety, Flashing and flashing in the sun.
On its banks, No shadow walks.
The river is fateful, Like the last one.
But there is no ferryman.
He could not bend against its propelling force.
It is not to be seen beneath the appearances That tell of it.
The steeple at Farmington Stands glistening and Haddam shines and sways.
It is the third commonness with light and air, A curriculum, a vigor, a local abstraction .
.
.
Call it, one more, a river, an unnamed flowing, Space-filled, reflecting the seasons, the folk-lore Of each of the senses; call it, again and again, The river that flows nowhere, like a sea.


by Christina Rossetti | |

Cobwebs

 It is a land with neither night nor day, 
Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind, nor rain, 
Nor hills nor valleys; but one even plain 
Stretches thro' long unbroken miles away: 
While thro' the sluggish air a twilight grey 
Broodeth; no moons or seasons wax and wane, 
No ebb and flow are there among the main, 
No bud-time no leaf-falling there for aye, 
No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand, 
No beat of wings to stir the stagnant space, 
And loveless sea: no trace of days before, 
No guarded home, no time-worn restingplace 
No future hope no fear forevermore.


by Christina Rossetti | |

From the Antique

 It's a weary life, it is, she said: 
Doubly blank in a woman's lot: 
I wish and I wish I were a man: 
Or, better then any being, were not:

Were nothing at all in all the world, 
Not a body and not a soul: 
Not so much as a grain of dust 
Or a drop of water from pole to pole.
Still the world would wag on the same, Still the seasons go and come: Blossoms bloom as in days of old, Cherries ripen and wild bees hum.
None would miss me in all the world, How much less would care or weep: I should be nothing, while all the rest Would wake and weary and fall asleep.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Calendar of Sonnets: October

 The month of carnival of all the year, 
When Nature lets the wild earth go its way, 
And spend whole seasons on a single day.
The spring-time holds her white and purple dear; October, lavish, flaunts them far and near; The summer charily her reds doth lay Like jewels on her costliest array; October, scornful, burns them on a bier.
The winter hoards his pearls of frost in sign Of kingdom: whiter pearls than winter knew, Oar empress wore, in Egypt's ancient line, October, feasting 'neath her dome of blue, Drinks at a single draught, slow filtered through Sunshiny air, as in a tingling wine!


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Companion

 Let him answer as he will,
Or be lightsome as he may,
Now nor after shall he say
Worn-out words enough to kill,
Or to lull down by their craft,
Doubt, that was born yesterday,
When he lied and when she laughed.
Let him and another name for the starlight on the snow, Let him teach her till she know That all seasons are the same, And all sheltered ways are fair,— Still, wherever she may go, Doubt will have a dwelling there.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Sonnet

 Oh for a poet—for a beacon bright 
To rift this changless glimmer of dead gray; 
To spirit back the Muses, long astray, 
And flush Parnassus with a newer light; 
To put these little sonnet-men to flight
Who fashion, in a shrewd mechanic way, 
Songs without souls, that flicker for a day, 
To vanish in irrevocable night.
What does it mean, this barren age of ours? Here are the men, the women, and the flowers, The seasons, and the sunset, as before.
What does it mean? Shall there not one arise To wrench one banner from the western skies, And mark it with his name forevermore?


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

The Way Of The Wind

 The wind's way in the deep sky's hollow
None may measure, as none can say
How the heart in her shows the swallow
The wind's way.
Hope nor fear can avail to stay Waves that whiten on wrecks that wallow, Times and seasons that wane and slay.
Life and love, till the strong night swallow Thought and hope and the red last ray, Swim the waters of years that follow The wind's way.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

EVER AND EVERYWHERE.

 FAR explore the mountain hollow,
High in air the clouds then follow!

To each brook and vale the Muse

Thousand times her call renews.
Soon as a flow'ret blooms in spring, It wakens many a strain; And when Time spreads his fleeting wing, The seasons come again.
1820.
*


by R S Thomas | |

An Old Man

 Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,
I understand whence this man's body comes,
In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone,
The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin,
Greets with a song the seasons of the blood.
But where in meadow or mountain shall I match The individual accent of the speech That is the ear's familiar? To what sun attribute The honeyed warmness of his smile? To which of the deciduous brood is german The angel peeping from the latticed eye?


by A R Ammons | |

Mule Song

 Silver will lie where she lies
sun-out, whatever turning the world does,
longeared in her ashen, earless,
floating world:
indifferent to sores and greengage colic,
where oats need not
come to,
bleached by crystals of her trembling time:
beyond all brunt of seasons, blind
forever to all blinds,
inhabited by
brooks still she may wraith over broken
fields after winter
or roll in the rye-green fields:
old mule, no defense but a mule’s against
disease, large-ribbed,
flat-toothed, sold to a stranger, shot by a
stranger’s hand,
not my hand she nuzzled the seasoning-salt from.


by A R Ammons | |

In Memoriam Mae Noblitt

 This is just a place:
we go around, distanced, 
yearly in a star's

atmosphere, turning 
daily into and out of 
direct light and

slanting through the 
quadrant seasons: deep 
space begins at our

heels, nearly rousing 
us loose: we look up 
or out so high, sight's

silk almost draws us away:
this is just a place:
currents worry themselves

coiled and free in airs 
and oceans: water picks 
up mineral shadow and

plasm into billions of 
designs, frames: trees, 
grains, bacteria: but

is love a reality we 
made here ourselves--
and grief--did we design

that--or do these, 
like currents, whine 
in and out among us merely

as we arrive and go:
this is just a place:
the reality we agree with,

that agrees with us, 
outbounding this, arrives 
to touch, joining with

us from far away:
our home which defines 
us is elsewhere but not

so far away we have 
forgotten it:
this is just a place.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart

 I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; And I have loved you all too long and well To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes, I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, That you may hail anew the bird and rose When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time, Even your summer in another clime.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Sonnet 03: Mindful Of You The Sodden Earth In Spring

 Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
 And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
 And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
 And all the nests that the bared branches show,
 And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet Up paths that only mist and morning knew, Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,— But you were something more than young and sweet And fair,—and the long year remembers you.


by Anne Killigrew | |

The Fourth EPIGRAM. (On GALLA)

 NOw liquid Streams by the fierce Gold do grow
As solid as the Rocks from whence they flow; 
Now Tibers Banks with Ice united meet, 
And it's firm Stream may well be term'd its Street; 
Now Vot'ries 'fore the Shrines like Statues show, 
And scarce the Men from Images we know; 
Now Winters Palsey seizes ev'ry Age, 
And none's so warm, but feels the Seasons Rage; 
Even the bright Lillies and triumphant Red
Which o're Corinna's youthful cheeks are spred, 
Look pale and bleak, and shew a purple hew, 
And Violets staine, where Roses lately grew.
Galla alone, with wonder we behold, Maintain her Spring, and still out-brave the Cold; Her constant white does not to Frost give place, Nor fresh Vermillion fade upon her face: Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does shine? Not Humane, one reply'd, yet not Divine.


by Walt Whitman | |

On Journeys Through The States.

 ON journeys through the States we start, 
(Ay, through the world—urged by these songs, 
Sailing henceforth to every land—to every sea;) 
We, willing learners of all, teachers of all, and lovers of all.
We have watch’d the seasons dispensing themselves, and passing on, We have said, Why should not a man or woman do as much as the seasons, and effuse as much? We dwell a while in every city and town; We pass through Kanada, the north-east, the vast valley of the Mississippi, and the Southern States; We confer on equal terms with each of The States, We make trial of ourselves, and invite men and women to hear; We say to ourselves, Remember, fear not, be candid, promulge the body and the Soul; Dwell a while and pass on—Be copious, temperate, chaste, magnetic, And what you effuse may then return as the seasons return, And may be just as much as the seasons.


by Robert Graves | |

1915

 I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow, 
In the fields between La Bass?e and Bethune; 
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, 
Red poppy floods of June, 
August, and yellowing Autumn, so 
To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, 
And you’ve been everything.
Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books, Music, the quiet of an English wood, Beautiful comrade-looks, The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, And Peace, and all that’s good.


by Rg Gregory | |

bad for ears

 the song wasn't up to the task
of getting through the double-glazing
into the ears pressed on the outside pane
the rest of their bodies had faded away but
the ears were straining still towards the music
in order to know the good times being had in the room
night fell the cold grew and the lights went out but
the ears hung around believing in music until
they froze and dropped to the ground like
slugs that had missed out on the seasons
it was a bad christmas for ears


by Suheir Hammad | |

daughter

 leaves and leaving call october home
her daughter releases wood
smoke from her skin
rich in scorpio
blood survived the first
flood each new year marks
a circle around her
thick bark middle
this the month summer and
winter fall into each
other and leave orange
yellow ashes
the vibrancy of death
carry it all
coiled in my belly
cut on the cusp 
of libra tail 
tips the scales
tonight it is raining in
the tradition of my parents
wanted a daughter not a writer
happy birthday poet
who loves you baby
the way your mama did
under her breast the way your
father did under his breath
leaves and leaving have known
my name intimately
i harvest pumpkins
to offer the river eat
buttered phoenix meat
to celebrate a new year
new cipher for my belly
i got a new name
secret nobody knows
the cold can't call me
leaving won't know 
where to find me 
october gonna hide me
in her harvest in
her seasons
happy birthday daughter
of the falling


by Sophie Hannah | |

Long For This World

 I settle for less than snow,
try to go gracefully like seasons go

which will regain their ground -
ditch, hill and field - when a new year comes round.
Now I know everything: how winter leaves without resenting spring, lives in a safe time frame, gives up so much but knows he can reclaim all titles that are his, fall out for months and still be what he is.
I settle for less than snow: high only once, then no way up from low, then to be swept from drives.
Ten words I throw into your changing lives fly like ten snowballs hurled: I hope to be, and will, long for this world.


by Thomas Moore | |

Come Oer the Sea

 Come o'er the sea, 
Maiden with me, 
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows; 
Seasons may roll, 
But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death were thou are not.
Then come o'er the sea, Maiden with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Was not the sea Made for the Free, Land for courts and chains alone? Here we are slaves, But, on the waves, Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us All earth forgot, and all heaven around us -- Then come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Mine through sunshine, storms, and snows Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.