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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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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.

by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |


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 Philip Larkin | |

Mother Summer I

 My mother, who hates thunder storms, 
Holds up each summer day and shakes 
It out suspiciously, lest swarms 
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there; 
But when the August weather breaks 
And rains begin, and brittle frost 
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air, 
Her worried summer look is lost, 

And I her son, though summer-born 
And summer-loving, none the less 
Am easier when the leaves are gone 
Too often summer days appear 
Emblems of perfect happiness 
I can't confront: I must await 
A time less bold, less rich, less clear: 
An autumn more appropriate.

by Christina Rossetti | |

Before The Paling Of The Stars

 Before the winter morn,
Before the earliest cock crow,
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable,
Cradled in a manger,
In the world his hands had made
Born a stranger.
Priest and king lay fast asleep In Jerusalem; Young and old lay fast asleep In crowded Bethlehem; Saint and angel, ox and ass, Kept a watch together Before the Christmas daybreak In the winter weather.
Jesus on his mother's breast In the stable cold, Spotless lamb of God was he, Shepherd of the fold: Let us kneel with Mary maid, With Joseph bent and hoary, With saint and angel, ox and ass, To hail the King of Glory.

by Wang Wei | |

In The Hills

 White rocks jutting from Ching stream
The weather's cold, red leaves few
No rain at all on the paths in the hills
Clothes are wet with the blue air.

by Wang Wei | |

Mount Zhongnan

 Its massive height near the City of Heaven 
Joins a thousand mountains to the corner of the sea.
Clouds, when I look back, close behind me, Mists, when I enter them, are gone.
A central peak divides the wilds And weather into many valleys.
Needing a place to spend the night, I call to a wood-cutter over the river

by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 The sea took a sailor to its depths.
-- His mother, unsuspecting, goes and lights a tall candle before the Virgin Mary for his speedy return and for fine weather -- and always she turns her ear to the wind.
But while she prays and implores, the icon listens, solemn and sad, knowing that the son she expects will no longer return.

by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 This little house sows the degrees
By which wood can return to trees.
Weather has stained the shingles dark And indistinguishable from bark.
Lichen that long ago adjourned Its lodging here has now returned.
And if you look in through the door You see a sapling through the floor.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Long Race

 Up the old hill to the old house again 
Where fifty years ago the friend was young 
Who should be waiting somewhere there among 
Old things that least remembered most remain, 
He toiled on with a pleasure that was pain
To think how soon asunder would be flung 
The curtain half a century had hung 
Between the two ambitions they had slain.
They dredged an hour for words, and then were done.
“Good-bye!… You have the same old weather-vane— Your little horse that’s always on the run.
” And all the way down back to the next train, Down the old hill to the old road again, It seemed as if the little horse had won.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |


 My heart is like a little bird
That sits and sings for very gladness.
Sorrow is some forgotten word, And so, except in rhyme, is sadness.
The world is very fair to me – Such azure skies, such golden weather, I’m like a long caged bird set free, My heart is lighter than a feather.
I rise rejoicing in my life; I live with love of God and neighbour; My days flow on unmarred by strife, And sweetened by my pleasant labour.
O youth! O spring! O happy days, Ye are so passing sweet, and tender, And while the fleeting season stays, I revel care-free, in its splendour.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

An Answer

 If all the year was summer-time,
And all the aim of life
Was just to lilt on like a rhyme –
Then I would be your wife.
If all the days were August days, And crowned with golden weather, How happy then through green-clad ways We two could stray together! If all the nights were moonlit nights, And we had naught to do But just to sit and plan delights, Then I would be with you.
If life was all a summer fete, Its soberest pace the “glide, ” Then I would choose you for my mate, And keep you at my side.
But winter makes full half the year, And labour half of life, And all the laughter and good cheer Gives place to wearing strife.
Days will grow cold, and moons wax old, And then a heart that’s true Is better far than grace or gold – And so, my love, adieu! I cannot wed with you.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

So Long In Coming

 When shall I hear the thrushes sing, 
And see their graceful, round throats swelling? 
When shall I watch the bluebirds bring
The straws and twiglets for their dwelling? 
When shall I hear among the trees
The little martial partridge drumming? 
Oh! Hasten! Sights and sounds that please –
The summer is so long in coming.
The winds are talking with the sun; I hope they will combine together And melt the snow-drifts, one by one, And bring again the golden weather.
Oh, haste, make haste, dear sun and wind, I long to hear the brown bee humming; I seek for blooms I cannot find, The summer is so long in coming.
The winter has been cold, so cold; Its winds are harsh, and bleak, and dreary, And all its sports are stale and old; We wait for something now more cheery.
Come up, O summer, from the south, And bring the harps your hands are thrumming.
We pine for kisses from your mouth! Oh! Do not be so long in coming.

by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Death And Birth

 Death and birth should dwell not near together:
Wealth keeps house not, even for shame, with dearth:
Fate doth ill to link in one brief tether
Death and birth.
Harsh the yoke that binds them, strange the girth Seems that girds them each with each: yet whether Death be best, who knows, or life on earth? Ill the rose-red and the sable feather Blend in one crown's plume, as grief with mirth: Ill met still are warm and wintry weather, Death and birth.

by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

A Childs Laughter

 ALL the bells of heaven may ring,
All the birds of heaven may sing,
All the wells on earth may spring,
All the winds on earth may bring
All sweet sounds together---
Sweeter far than all things heard,
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sundawn stirred,
Welling water's winsome word,
Wind in warm wan weather,

One thing yet there is, that none
Hearing ere its chime be done
Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun,
Hoped in heaven hereafter;
Soft and strong and loud and light,
Very sound of very light
Heard from morning's rosiest height,
When the soul of all delight
Fills a child's clear laughter.
Golden bells of welcome rolled Never forth such notes, nor told Hours so blithe in tones so bold, As the radiant mouth of gold Here that rings forth heaven.
If the golden-crested wren Were a nightingale---why, then, Something seen and heard of men Might be half as sweet as when Laughs a child of seven.

by Henry Van Dyke | |

The Heavenly Hills of Holland

 The heavenly hills of Holland,--
How wondrously they rise 
Above the smooth green pastures
Into the azure skies!
With blue and purple hollows,
With peaks of dazzling snow, 
Along the far horizon
The clouds are marching slow.
No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colors ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While the ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They're hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear shining after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again.
The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them clear, Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer.
Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Canals and ancient cities,-- Float Holland's heavenly hills.

by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

Spring Song

 THE air was full of sun and birds,
The fresh air sparkled clearly.
Remembrance wakened in my heart And I knew I loved her dearly.
The fallows and the leafless trees And all my spirit tingled.
My earliest thought of love, and Spring's First puff of perfume mingled.
In my still heart the thoughts awoke, Came lone by lone together - Say, birds and Sun and Spring, is Love A mere affair of weather?

by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

Spring Song

 Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south! 
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.
In the dreamy vale of beeches Fair and faint is woven mist, And the river's orient reaches Are the palest amethyst.
Every limpid brook is singing Of the lure of April days; Every piney glen is ringing With the maddest roundelays.
Come and let us seek together Springtime lore of daffodils, Giving to the golden weather Greeting on the sun-warm hills.
Ours shall be the moonrise stealing Through the birches ivory-white; Ours shall be the mystic healing Of the velvet-footed night.
Ours shall be the gypsy winding Of the path with violets blue, Ours at last the wizard finding Of the land where dreams come true.

by John Gould Fletcher | |


 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 | |


 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.