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Best Famous Snowflake Poems

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

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Written by Sara Teasdale | Create an image from this poem

I Am Not Yours

I am not yours, not lost in you, 
Not lost, although I long to be 
Lost as a candle lit at noon, 
Lost as a snowflake in the sea. 

You love me, and I find you still 
A spirit beautiful and bright, 
Yet I am I, who long to be 
Lost as a light is lost in light. 

Oh plunge me deep in love - put out 
My senses, leave me deaf and blind, 
Swept by the tempest of your love, 
A taper in a rushing wind. 


Written by Nikki Giovanni | Create an image from this poem

Winter Poem

Winter Poem

once a snowflake fell on my brow and i loved it so much and i kissed it and it was happy and called its cousins and brothers and a web of snow engulfed me then i reached to love them all and i squeezed them and they became a spring rain and i stood perfectly still and was a flower
Written by Mark Strand | Create an image from this poem

A Piece Of The Storm

 For Sharon Horvath

From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed.
That's all There was to it. No more than a solemn waking
To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly,
A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more than that
Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,
Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back,
That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say:
"It's time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening."
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

The Twelve

 III 
Our sons have gone 
to serve the Reds 
to serve the Reds 
to risk their heads! 

O bitter,bitter pain, 
Sweet living! 
A torn overcoat 
an Austrian gun! 

-To get the bourgeosie 
We'll start a fire 
a worldwide fire, and drench it 
in blood- 
The good Lord bless us! 


-O you bitter bitterness, 
boring boredom, 
deadly boredom. 

This is how I will 
spend my time. 

This is how I will 
scratch my head, 

munch on seeds, 
some sunflower seeds, 

play with my knife 
play with my knife. 

You bourgeosie, fly as a sparrow! 
I'll drink your blood, 

your warm blood, for love, 
for dark-eyed love. 

God, let this soul, your servant, 
rest in peace. 

Such boredom! 


XII 
... On they march with sovereign tread... 
‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said 
come out!’ It is the wind and the red 
flag plunging gaily at their head. 

The frozen snow-drift looms in front. 
‘Who’s in the drift! Come out! Come here!’ 
There’s only the homeless mongrel runt 
limping wretchedly in the rear ... 

‘You mangy beast, out of the way 
before you taste my bayonet. 
Old mongrel world, clear off I say! 
I’ll have your hide to sole my boot! 

The shivering cur, the mongrel cur 
bares his teeth like a hungry wolf, 
droops his tail, but does not stir ... 
‘Hey answer, you there, show yourself.’ 

‘Who’s that waving the red flag?’ 
‘Try and see! It’s as dark as the tomb!’ 
‘Who’s that moving at a jog 
trot, keeping to the back-street gloom?’ 

‘Don’t you worry ~ I’ll catch you yet; 
better surrender to me alive!’ 
‘Come out, comrade, or you’ll regret 
it ~ we’ll fire when I’ve counted five!’ 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! But only the echo 
answers from among the eaves ... 
The blizzard splits his seams, the snow 
laughs wildly up the wirlwind’s sleeve ... 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
... So they march with sovereign tread ... 
Behind them limps the hungry dog, 
and wrapped in wild snow at their head 
carrying a blood-red flag ~ 
soft-footed where the blizzard swirls, 
invulnerable where bullets crossed ~ 
crowned with a crown of snowflake pearls, 
a flowery diadem of frost, 
ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.
Written by Sara Teasdale | Create an image from this poem

I Am Not Yours

 I am not yours, not lost in you,
 Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
 Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
 A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
 Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
 My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
 A taper in a rushing wind.


Written by Francis Thompson | Create an image from this poem

To A Snowflake

 What heart could have thought you? -- 
Past our devisal 
(O filigree petal!) 
Fashioned so purely, 
Fragilely, surely, 
From what Paradisal 
Imagineless metal, 
Too costly for cost? 
Who hammered you, wrought you, 
From argentine vapor? -- 
"God was my shaper. 
Passing surmisal, 
He hammered, He wrought me, 
From curled silver vapor, 
To lust of His mind -- 
Thou could'st not have thought me! 
So purely, so palely, 
Tinily, surely, 
Mightily, frailly, 
Insculped and embossed, 
With His hammer of wind, 
And His graver of frost."
Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | Create an image from this poem

While yet we wait for spring and from the dry

 While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry 
And blackening east that so embitters March, 
Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch, 
And driven dust and withering snowflake fly; 
Already in glimpses of the tarnish'd sky 
The sun is warm and beckons to the larch, 
And where the covert hazels interarch 
Their tassell'd twigs, fair beds of primrose lie. 
Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid 
A million buds but stay their blossoming; 
And trustful birds have built their nests amid 
The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing 
Till one soft shower from the south shall bid, 
And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.
Written by George (Lord) Byron | Create an image from this poem

Lachin Y Gair

 Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses! 
In you let the minions of luxury rove; 
Restore me to the rocks, where the snowflake reposes, 
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
Round their white summits though elements war; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, 
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered; 
My cap was teh bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; 
On chieftains long perished my memory pondered, 
As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade; 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; 
For fancy was cheered by traditional story, 
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. 
Rouch Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 
Winter presides in his cold icy car: 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; 
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 
Victory crowned not your fall with applause: 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 
Years must elapse ere I tread you again: 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic 
To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar: 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! 
The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.
Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Create an image from this poem

The Blessed Virgin Compared To The Air We Breathe

 Wild air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,
That each eyelash or hair
Girdles; goes home betwixt
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed
Snowflake; that 's fairly mixed
With, riddles, and is rife
In every least thing's life;
This needful, never spent,
And nursing element;
My more than meat and drink,
My meal at every wink;
This air, which, by life's law,
My lung must draw and draw
Now but to breathe its praise,
Minds me in many ways
Of her who not only
Gave God's infinity
Dwindled to infancy
Welcome in womb and breast,
Birth, milk, and all the rest
But mothers each new grace
That does now reach our race—
Mary Immaculate,
Merely a woman, yet
Whose presence, power is
Great as no goddess's
Was deemèd, dreamèd; who
This one work has to do—
Let all God's glory through,
God's glory which would go
Through her and from her flow
Off, and no way but so. 

 I say that we are wound
With mercy round and round
As if with air: the same
Is Mary, more by name.
She, wild web, wondrous robe,
Mantles the guilty globe,
Since God has let dispense
Her prayers his providence:
Nay, more than almoner,
The sweet alms' self is her
And men are meant to share
Her life as life does air.
 If I have understood,
She holds high motherhood
Towards all our ghostly good
And plays in grace her part
About man's beating heart,
Laying, like air's fine flood,
The deathdance in his blood;
Yet no part but what will
Be Christ our Saviour still.
Of her flesh he took flesh:
He does take fresh and fresh,
Though much the mystery how,
Not flesh but spirit now
And makes, O marvellous!
New Nazareths in us,
Where she shall yet conceive
Him, morning, noon, and eve;
New Bethlems, and he born
There, evening, noon, and morn—
Bethlem or Nazareth,
Men here may draw like breath
More Christ and baffle death;
Who, born so, comes to be
New self and nobler me
In each one and each one
More makes, when all is done,
Both God's and Mary's Son.
 Again, look overhead
How air is azurèd;
O how! nay do but stand
Where you can lift your hand
Skywards: rich, rich it laps
Round the four fingergaps.
Yet such a sapphire-shot,
Charged, steepèd sky will not
Stain light. Yea, mark you this:
It does no prejudice.
The glass-blue days are those
When every colour glows,
Each shape and shadow shows.
Blue be it: this blue heaven
The seven or seven times seven
Hued sunbeam will transmit
Perfect, not alter it.
Or if there does some soft,
On things aloof, aloft,
Bloom breathe, that one breath more
Earth is the fairer for.
Whereas did air not make
This bath of blue and slake
His fire, the sun would shake,
A blear and blinding ball
With blackness bound, and all
The thick stars round him roll
Flashing like flecks of coal,
Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt,
In grimy vasty vault.
 So God was god of old:
A mother came to mould
Those limbs like ours which are
What must make our daystar
Much dearer to mankind;
Whose glory bare would blind
Or less would win man's mind.
Through her we may see him
Made sweeter, not made dim,
And her hand leaves his light
Sifted to suit our sight.
 Be thou then, O thou dear
Mother, my atmosphere;
My happier world, wherein
To wend and meet no sin;
Above me, round me lie
Fronting my froward eye
With sweet and scarless sky;
Stir in my ears, speak there
Of God's love, O live air,
Of patience, penance, prayer:
World-mothering air, air wild,
Wound with thee, in thee isled,
Fold home, fast fold thy child.
Written by Archibald MacLeish | Create an image from this poem

The Snowflake Which Is Now And Hence Forever

 Will it last? he says.
Is it a masterpiece?
Will generation after generation
Turn with reverence to the page?

Birdseye scholar of the frozen fish,
What would he make of the sole, clean, clear
Leap of the salmon that has disappeared?

To be, yes!--whether they like it or not!
But not to last when leap and water are forgotten,
A plank of standard pinkness in the dish.

They also live
Who swerve and vanish in the river.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry