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Best Famous Weather Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Gary Fincke | |

The Magpie Evening: A Prayer

           When magpies die, each of the living swoops down 
           and pecks, one by one, in an accepted order.
He coaxed my car to start, the boy who’s killed himself.
He twisted a cable, performed CPR on The carburetor while my three children shivered Through the unanswerable questions about stalled.
He chose shotgun, full in the face, so no one stepped Into the cold, blowing on his hands, to fix him.
Let him rest now, the minister says.
Let this be, Repeating himself to four brothers, five sisters, All of them my neighbors until they grew and left.
Let us pray.
Let us manage what we need to say.
Let this house with its three hand-made additions be Large enough for the one day of necessity.
Let evening empty each room to ceremony Chosen by the remaining nine.
Let the awful, Forecasted weather hold off in east Ohio Until each of them, oldest to youngest, has passed.
Let their thirty-seven children scatter into The squabbling of the everyday, and let them break This creeping chain of cars into the fanning out Toward anger and selfishness and the need to eat At any of the thousand tables they will pass.
Let them wait.
Let them correctly choose the right turn Or the left, this entrance ramp, that exit, the last Confusing fork before the familiar driveway Three hundred miles and more from these bleak thunderheads.
Let them regather into the chairs exactly Matched to their numbers, blessing the bountiful or The meager with voices that soar toward renewal.
Let them have mercy on themselves.
Let my children, Grown now, be repairing my faults with forgiveness.
© Gary Fincke


by Emily Dickinson | |

Before you thought of spring

Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.
With specimens of song, As if for you to choose, Discretion in the interval, With gay delays he goes To some superior tree Without a single leaf, And shouts for joy to nobody But his seraphic self!


by Wallace Stevens | |

Disillusionment of Ten o Clock

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures.
People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather.


More great poems below...

by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

Fable

THE MOUNTAIN and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel; 
And the former called the latter "Little Prig.
" Bun replied You are doubtless very big; 5 But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace 10 To occupy my place.
If I'm not as large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make 15 A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Morning Express

ALONG the wind-swept platform pinched and white 
The travellers stand in pools of wintry light 
Offering themselves to morn¡¯s long slanting arrows.
The train¡¯s due; porters trundle laden barrows.
The train steams in volleying resplendent clouds 5 Of sun-blown vapour.
Hither and about Scared people hurry storming the doors in crowds.
The officials seem to waken with a shout Resolved to hoist and plunder; some to the vans Leap; others rumble the milk in gleaming cans.
10 Boys indolent-eyed from baskets leaning back Question each face; a man with a hammer steals Stooping from coach to coach; with clang and clack Touches and tests and listens to the wheels.
Guard sounds a warning whistle points to the clock 15 With brandished flag and on his folded flock Claps the last door: the monster grunts: ¡®Enough!¡¯ Tightening his load of links with pant and puff.
Under the arch then forth into blue day Glide the processional windows on their way 20 And glimpse the stately folk who sit at ease To view the world like kings taking the seas in prosperous weather: drifting banners tell Their progress to the counties; with them goes The clamour of their journeying; while those 25 Who sped them stand to wave a last farewell.


by | |

One Misty Moisty Morning


One misty moisty morning,
    When cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old man,
    Clothed all in leather.
He began to compliment
    And I began to grin.
How do you do? And how do you do?
    And how do you do again?


by Ruth Stone | |

Repetition of Words and Weather

A basket of dirty clothes
spills all day long
down the mountain
beating the rocks
with a horrible washer-woman's cry.
Now two riders go by horseback on the dirt road.
Young women talking of antique latches, blind to the dirty linen, smells of urine, bedsores, bowels of old women left on their backs, fat and lye, lies of doctoring men.
Strange weather mid-summer is summer spent.
I open a book of poems.
All lies on the psalter, I say, the dead are silent.
The riders come back chatting like birds.
What would I not give to return that way.
Their horses trot in a break of sunlight over the road.
And I think, what's done is done.
It won't be changed with words.


by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Journey Of The Magi

 'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
' And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped in away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no imformation, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt.
I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.


by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

La Figlia che Piange

 O quam te memorem virgo.
.
.
STAND on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise— Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.


by Edmund Blunden | |

Perch-Fishing

On the far hill the cloud of thunder grew
And sunlight blurred below; but sultry blue
Burned yet on the valley water where it hoards
Behind the miller's elmen floodgate boards,
And there the wasps, that lodge them ill-concealed
In the vole's empty house, still drove afield
To plunder touchwood from old crippled trees
And build their young ones their hutched nurseries;
Still creaked the grasshoppers' rasping unison
Nor had the whisper through the tansies run
Nor weather-wisest bird gone home.
How then Should wry eels in the pebbled shallows ken Lightning coming? troubled up they stole To the deep-shadowed sullen water-hole, Among whose warty snags the quaint perch lair.
As cunning stole the boy to angle there, Muffling least tread, with no noise balancing through The hangdog alder-boughs his bright bamboo.
Down plumbed the shuttled ledger, and the quill On the quicksilver water lay dead still.
A sharp snatch, swirling to-fro of the line, He's lost, he's won, with splash and scuffling shine Past the low-lapping brandy-flowers drawn in, The ogling hunchback perch with needled fin.
And there beside him one as large as he, Following his hooked mate, careless who shall see Or what befall him, close and closer yet — The startled boy might take him in his net That folds the other.
Slow, while on the clay, The other flounces, slow he sinks away.
What agony usurps that watery brain For comradeship of twenty summers slain, For such delights below the flashing weir And up the sluice-cut, playing buccaneer Among the minnows; lolling in hot sun When bathing vagabonds had drest and done; Rootling in salty flannel-weed for meal And river shrimps, when hushed the trundling wheel; Snapping the dapping moth, and with new wonder Prowling through old drowned barges falling asunder.
And O a thousand things the whole year through They did together, never more to do.


by Sir Thomas Wyatt | |

Is It Possible

 Is it possible
That so high debate,
So sharp, so sore, and of such rate,
Should end so soon and was begun so late?
Is it possible?

Is it possible
So cruel intent,
So hasty heat and so soon spent,
From love to hate, and thence for to relent?
Is it possible?

Is it possible
That any may find
Within one heart so diverse mind,
To change or turn as weather and wind?
Is it possible?

Is it possible
To spy it in an eye
That turns as oft as chance on die,
The truth whereof can any try?
Is it possible?

It is possible
For to turn so oft,
To bring that lowest which was most aloft,
And to fall highest yet to light soft:
It is possible.
All is possible Whoso list believe.
Trust therefore first, and after preve, As men wed ladies by licence and leave.
All is possible.


by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

My Little March Girl

 Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart, 
There she is passing, the girl of my heart; 
See where she walks like a queen in the street, 
Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet.
Tripping along with impetuous grace, Joy of her life beaming out of her face, Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl, Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.
Hint of the violet's delicate bloom, Hint of the rose's pervading perfume! How can the wind help from kissing her face,— Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace? But still serenely she laughs at his rout, She is the victor who wins in the bout.
So may life's passions about her soul swirl, Leaving it placid,—my little March girl.
What self-possession looks out of her eyes! What are the wild winds, and what are the skies, Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life, Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife? Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now? What can you do with that innocent brow? Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl, But bring to me, Wind,—my little March girl.


by Odysseus Elytis | |

Heleni

Heleni
Translated by Daphne on May 17th, 1995


By the first drop of rain the summer died 
The words that had bore those stary nights got wet
All those words that had one sole destination You!
Where will our hands reach now that weather no longer cares for us
Where will our eyes rest now that the distant lines got dispersed in the clouds
Now that your eyes have shut above the landscapes that were ours
And now that we found ourselves - as if the mist went right through us- 
totally lonely surrounded by your inanimate images

With the forehead against the window we wait upon the new torment
It 's not Death that will make us fall since You are alive
Since a wind exists somewhere and he will live you entirely
To dress you from the near like our hope will from afar
Since there is elsewhere
A greenest meadow far from your laughter up to the sun
Telling him secretely that we will one day meet again
No, it is not death we shall confront
But just a tiny drop of the autumn rain
A blurry feeling
The scent of the moist soil within our souls
that are continuously diverging.
And if your hand is not between our hands And if our blood wont' run within your dream's veins The music unseen within us and O sorrowful Wanderer of whatever still keeps us alive It is the humid air the come of autumn the depart The elbow's bitter support upon the memory that comes out when night arrives to divorce us from the light Behind the square window that looks upon the sadness That sees nothing Because it has become music unseen fire a strike of the big clock on the wall Because it has become A poem a verse upon a verse, a sound resembling tears and words Words not like the rest of them but with the same destination: You!


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Menses

 (He speaks, but to himself, being aware how it is with her)
Think not I have not heard.
Well-fanged the double word And well-directed flew.
I felt it.
Down my side Innocent as oil I see the ugly venom slide: Poison enough to stiffen us both, and all our friends; But I am not pierced, so there the mischief ends.
There is more to be said: I see it coiling; The impact will be pain.
Yet coil; yet strike again.
You cannot riddle the stout mail I wove Long since, of wit and love.
As for my answer .
.
.
stupid in the sun He lies, his fangs drawn: I will not war with you.
You know how wild you are.
You are willing to be turned To other matters; you would be grateful, even.
You watch me shyly.
I (for I have learned More things than one in our few years together) Chafe at the churlish wind, the unseasonable weather.
"Unseasonable?" you cry, with harsher scorn Than the theme warrants; "Every year it is the same! 'Unseasonable!' they whine, these stupid peasants!—and never since they were born Have they known a spring less wintry! Lord, the shame, The crying shame of seeing a man no wiser than the beasts he feeds— His skull as empty as a shell!" ("Go to.
You are unwell.
") Such is my thought, but such are not my words.
"What is the name," I ask, "of those big birds With yellow breast and low and heavy flight, That make such mournful whistling?" "Meadowlarks," You answer primly, not a little cheered.
"Some people shoot them.
" Suddenly your eyes are wet And your chin trembles.
On my breast you lean, And sob most pitifullly for all the lovely things that are not and have been.
"How silly I am!—and I know how silly I am!" You say; "You are very patient.
You are very kind.
I shall be better soon.
Just Heaven consign and damn To tedious Hell this body with its muddy feet in my mind!"


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 Marianne Moore | |

Spensers Ireland

 has not altered;--
a place as kind as it is green,
the greenest place I've never seen.
Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect the culprit; nor blows, but it is torture to him to not be spoken to.
They're natural,-- the coat, like Venus' mantle lined with stars, buttoned close at the neck,-the sleeves new from disuse.
If in Ireland they play the harp backward at need, and gather at midday the seed of the fern, eluding their "giants all covered with iron," might there be fern seed for unlearn- ing obduracy and for reinstating the enchantment? Hindered characters seldom have mothers in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers.
It was Irish; a match not a marriage was made when my great great grandmother'd said with native genius for disunion, "Although your suitor be perfection, one objection is enough; he is not Irish.
"Outwitting the fairies, befriending the furies, whoever again and again says, "I'll never give in," never sees that you're not free until you've been made captive by supreme belief,--credulity you say?When large dainty fingers tremblingly divide the wings of the fly for mid-July with a needle and wrap it with peacock-tail, or tie wool and buzzard's wing, their pride, like the enchanter's is in care, not madness.
Concurring hands divide flax for damask that when bleached by Irish weather has the silvered chamois-leather water-tightness of a skin.
Twisted torcs and gold new-moon-shaped lunulae aren't jewelry like the purple-coral fuchsia-tree's.
Eire-- the guillemot so neat and the hen of the heath and the linnet spinet-sweet-bespeak relentlessness?Then they are to me like enchanted Earl Gerald who changed himself into a stag, to a great green-eyed cat of the mountain.
Discommodity makes them invisible; they've dis- appeared.
The Irish say your trouble is their trouble and your joy their joy?I wish I could believe it; I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.


by Lam Quang My | |

A voice singing lullaby

You sitting by the window
Copy poems with great care.
As I pass accidentally Watch you dazed as in a dream.
So skilled your calligraphic hand Floats pen on paper surface.
An unknown sense of poetry Shines within your blinking eyes.
Window takes the colour green Your shirt is a canary shade.
Little bird is flying by And sings with sweetest voice.
Weather mourns autumnally.
Yellowed leaves of trees.
Regret of summer still remained No voice sings lullaby.


by Lizette Woodworth Reese | |

That Day you came

 Such special sweetness was about
 That day God sent you here,
I knew the lavender was out,
 And it was mid of year.
Their common way the great winds blew, The ships sailed out to sea; Yet ere that day was spent I knew Mine own had come to me.
As after song some snatch of tune Lurks still in grass or bough, So, somewhat of the end o' June Lurks in each weather now.
The young year sets the buds astir, The old year strips the trees; But ever in my lavender I hear the brawling bees.
For me the jasmine buds unfold And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me.
I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark's transport fine, I know the fountain's wayward yearning, I love, and the world is mine! I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved, Still well remembered, grieve not me; From all that darkened and deceived Upsoars my spirit free.
For soft the hours repeat one story, Sings the sea one strain divine; My clouds arise all flushed with glory -- I love, and the world is mine!


by John Gould Fletcher | |

Spring

 Birds' love and birds' song
Flying here and there,
Birds' songand birds' love
And you with gold for hair!
Birds' songand birds' love
Passing with the weather,
Men's song and men's love,
To love once and forever.
Men's love and birds' love, And women's love and men's! And you my wren with a crown of gold, You my queen of the wrens! You the queen of the wrens -- We'll be birds of a feather, I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens, And all in a nest together.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

SIR CURTS WEDDING-JOURNEY.

 WITH a bridegroom's joyous bearing,

Mounts Sir Curt his noble beast,
To his mistress' home repairing,

There to hold his wedding feast;
When a threatening foe advances

From a desert, rocky spot;
For the fray they couch their lances,

Not delaying, speaking not.
Long the doubtful fight continues, Victory then for Curt declares; Conqueror, though with wearied sinews, Forward on his road he fares.
When he sees, though strange it may be, Something 'midst the foliage move; 'Tis a mother, with her baby, Stealing softly through the grove! And upon the spot she beckons-- "Wherefore, love, this speed so wild? Of the wealth thy storehouse reckons, Hast thou nought to give thy child!" Flames of rapture now dart through him, And he longs for nothing more, While the mother seemeth to him Lovely as the maid of yore.
But he hears his servants blowing, And bethinks him of his bride; And ere long, while onward going, Chances past a fair to ride; In the booths he forthwith buys him For his mistress many a pledge; But, alas! some Jews surprise him, And long-standing debts allege.
And the courts of justice duly Send the knight to prison straight.
Oh accursed story, truly! For a hero, what a fate! Can my patience such things weather? Great is my perplexity.
Women, debts, and foes together,-- Ah, no knight escapes scot free! 1803.
*


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

JOY AND SORROW.

 As a fisher-boy I fared

To the black rock in the sea,
And, while false gifts I prepared.
Listen'd and sang merrily, Down descended the decoy, Soon a fish attack'd the bait; One exultant shout of joy,-- And the fish was captured straight.
Ah! on shore, and to the wood Past the cliffs, o'er stock and stone, One foot's traces I pursued, And the maiden was alone.
Lips were silent, eyes downcast As a clasp-knife snaps the bait, With her snare she seized me fast, And the boy was captured straight.
Heav'n knows who's the happy swain That she rambles with anew! I must dare the sea again, Spite of wind and weather too.
When the great and little fish Wail and flounder in my net, Straight returns my eager wish In her arms to revel yet! 1815.


by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

May and the Poets

 There is May in books forever; 
May will part from Spenser never; 
May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 
May's in all the Italian books:-- 
She has old and modern nooks, 
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves, 
In happy places they call shelves, 
And will rise and dress your rooms 
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will, May's at home, and with me still; But come rather, thou, good weather, And find us in the fields together.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Sic Vita

 I am a parcel of vain strivings tied 
By a chance bond together, 
Dangling this way and that, their links 
Were made so loose and wide, 
Methinks, 
For milder weather.
A bunch of violets without their roots, And sorrel intermixed, Encircled by a wisp of straw Once coiled about their shoots, The law By which I'm fixed.
A nosegay which Time clutched from out Those fair Elysian fields, With weeds and broken stems, in haste, Doth make the rabble rout That waste The day he yields.
And here I bloom for a short hour unseen, Drinking my juices up, With no root in the land To keep my branches green, But stand In a bare cup.
Some tender buds were left upon my stem In mimicry of life, But ah! the children will not know, Till time has withered them, The woe With which they're rife.
But now I see I was not plucked for naught, And after in life's vase Of glass set while I might survive, But by a kind hand brought Alive To a strange place.
That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours, And by another year, Such as God knows, with freer air, More fruits and fairer flowers Will bear, While I droop here.


by William Ernest Henley | |

If I Were King

 If I were king, my pipe should be premier.
The skies of time and chance are seldom clear, We would inform them all with bland blue weather.
Delight alone would need to shed a tear, For dream and deed should war no more together.
Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear; Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather; And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere, If I were king.
But politics should find no harbour near; The Philistine should fear to slip his tether; Tobacco should be duty free, and beer; In fact, in room of this, the age of leather, An age of gold all radiant should appear, If I were king.


by Louisa May Alcott | |

From The Short Story Shadow-Children

 Little shadows, little shadows 
Dancing on the chamber wall, 
While I sit beside the hearthstone 
Where the red flames rise and fall.
Caps and nightgowns, caps and nightgowns, My three antic shadows wear; And no sound they make in playing, For the six small feet are bare.
Dancing gayly, dancing gayly, To and fro all together, Like a family of daisies Blown about in windy weather; Nimble fairies, nimble fairies, Playing pranks in the warm glow, While I sing the nursery ditties Childish phantoms love and know.
Now what happens, now what happens? One small shadow's tumbled down: I can see it on the carpet Softly rubbing its hurt crown.
No one whimpers, no one whimpers; A brave-hearted sprite is this: See! the others offer comfort In a silent, shadowy kiss.
Hush! they're creeping; hush! they're creeping, Up about my rocking-chair: I can feel their loving fingers Clasp my neck and touch my hair.
Little shadows, little shadows, Take me captive, hold me tight, As they climb and cling and whisper, "Mother dear, good night! good night!"