Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



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.

Search for the best famous Weather poems, articles about Weather poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Weather poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
Written 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


Written 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!


Written 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...

Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by Elizabeth Bishop | |

Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore

From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals, please come flying, to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums descending out of the mackerel sky over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water, please come flying.
Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing.
The ships are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing countless little pellucid jellies in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
Please come flying.
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe trailing a sapphire highlight, with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots, with heaven knows how many angels all riding on the broad black brim of your hat, please come flying.
Bearing a musical inaudible abacus, a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons, please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan is all awash with morals this fine morning, so please come flying.
Mounting the sky with natural heroism, above the accidents, above the malignant movies, the taxicabs and injustices at large, while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears that simultaneously listen to a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer, please come flying.
For whom the grim museums will behave like courteous male bower-birds, for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait on the steps of the Public Library, eager to rise and follow through the doors up into the reading rooms, please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping, or play at a game of constantly being wrong with a priceless set of vocabularies, or we can bravely deplore, but please please come flying.
With dynasties of negative constructions darkening and dying around you, with grammar that suddenly turns and shines like flocks of sandpipers flying, please come flying.
Come like a light in the white mackerel sky, come like a daytime comet with a long unnebulous train of words, from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying.


Written 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.


Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

A Farewell to Agassiz

 How the mountains talked together,
Looking down upon the weather,
When they heard our friend had planned his
Little trip among the Andes
How they'll bare their snowy scalps
To the climber of the Alps
When the cry goes through their passes,
"Here comes the great Agassiz!"
"Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo,
"But I wait for him to say so,--
That's the only thing that lacks,-- he
Must see me, Cotopaxi!"
"Ay! ay!" the fire-peak thunders,
"And he must view my wonders
I'm but a lonely crater
Till I have him for spectator!"
The mountain hearts are yearning,
The lava-torches burning,
The rivers bend to meet him,
The forests bow to greet him,
It thrills the spinal column
Of fossil fishes solemn,
And glaciers crawl the faster
To the feet of their old master!
Heaven keep him well and hearty,
Both him and all his party!
From the sun that broils and smites,
From the centipede that bites,
From the hail-storm and the thunder,
From the vampire and the condor,
From the gust upon the river,
From the sudden earthquake shiver,
From the trip of mule or donkey,
From the midnight howling monkey,
From the stroke of knife or dagger,
From the puma and the jaguar,
From the horrid boa-constrictor
That has scared us in the picture,
From the Indians of the Pampas
Who would dine upon their grampas,
From every beast and vermin
That to think of sets us squirmin',
From every snake that tries on
The traveller his p'ison,
From every pest of Natur',
Likewise the alligator,
And from two things left behind him,
(Be sure they'll try to find him,)
The tax-bill and assessor,--
Heaven keep the great Professor!
May he find, with his apostles,
That the land is full of fossils,
That the waters swarm with fishes
Shaped according to his wishes,
That every pool is fertile
In fancy kinds of turtle,
New birds around him singing,
New insects, never stinging,
With a million novel data
About the articulata,
And facts that strip off all husks
From the history of mollusks.
And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That gods and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at! God bless the great Professor! And Madam, too, God bless her! Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed shore! Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creature's paeans, Till the fossil echoes roar; While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus, God bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor,-- Bless them now and evermore!


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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!"


Written by Sir John Suckling | |

Out upon it I have lovd

 Out upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me; Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.


Written by Sir John Suckling | |

The Constant Lover

 Out upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall molt away his wings Ere he shall discover In such whole wide world again Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.


Written by John Crowe Ransom | |

Necrological

 The friar had said his paternosters duly 
And scourged his limbs, and afterwards would have slept; 
But with much riddling his head became unruly, 
He arose, from the quiet monastery he crept.
Dawn lightened the place where the battle had been won.
The people were dead -- it is easy he thought to die -- These dead remained, but the living were all gone, Gone with the wailing trumps of victory.
The dead men wore no raiment against the air, Bartholomew's men had spoiled them where they fell; In defeat the heroes' bodies were whitely bare, The field was white like meads of asphodel.
Not all were white; some gory and fabulous Whom the sword had pierced and then the grey wolf eaten; But the brother reasoned that heroes' flesh was thus.
Flesh fails, and the postured bones lie weather-beaten.
The lords of chivalry lay prone and shattered.
The gentle and the bodyguard of yeomen; Bartholomew's stroke went home -- but little it mattered, Bartholomew went to be stricken of other foemen.
Beneath the blue ogive of the firmament Was a dead warrior, clutching whose mighty knees Was a leman, who with her flame had warmed his tent, For him enduring all men's pleasantries.
Close by the sable stream that purged the plain Lay the white stallion and his rider thrown, The great beast had spilled there his little brain, And the little groin of the knight was spilled by a stone.
The youth possessed him then of a crooked blade Deep in the belly of a lugubrious wight; He fingered it well, and it was cunningly made; But strange apparatus was if for a Carmelite.
Then he sat upon a hill and bowed his head As under a riddle, and in deep surmise So still that he likened himself unto those dead Whom the kites of Heaven solicited with sweet cries.


Written by John Crowe Ransom | |

Winter Remembered

 Two evils, monstrous either one apart,
Possessed me, and were long and loath at going:
A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart,
And in the wood the furious winter blowing.
Think not, when fire was bright upon my bricks, And past the tight boards hardly a wind could enter, I glowed like them, the simple burning sticks, Far from my cause, my proper heat and center.
Better to walk forth in the frozen air And wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing; Because my heart would throb less painful there, Being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling.
And where I walked, the murderous winter blast Would have this body bowed, these eyeballs streaming, And though I think this heart's blood froze not fast It ran too small to spare one drop for dreaming.
Dear love, these fingers that had known your touch, And tied our separate forces first together, Were ten poor idiot fingers not worth much, Ten frozen parsnips hanging in the weather.