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Best Famous Snowflakes Poems

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

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Written by Maya Angelou | Create an image from this poem

Woman Work

 I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine Rain on me, rain Fall softly, dewdrops And cool my brow again.
Storm, blow me from here With your fiercest wind Let me float across the sky 'Til I can rest again.
Fall gently, snowflakes Cover me with white Cold icy kisses and Let me rest tonight.
Sun, rain, curving sky Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone Star shine, moon glow You're all that I can call my own.


Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

Improvisations: Light And Snow

 I

The girl in the room beneath 
Before going to bed 
Strums on a mandolin 
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels! When she has finished them several times She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
II I stood for a long while before the shop window Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
The building was a tower before me, Time was loud behind me, Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees; And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless, Stitched in a golden sky By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.
III The first bell is silver, And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
The second bell is crimson, And I think of a holiday night, with rockets Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.
The third bell is saffron and slow, And I behold a long sunset over the sea With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.
The fourth bell is color of bronze, I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: Muffled crackings run in the ice, Trees creak, birds fly.
The fifth bell is cold clear azure, Delicately tinged with green: One golden star hangs melting in it, And towards this, sleepily, I go.
The sixth bell is as if a pebble Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me .
.
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Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.
IV On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; And talkng constrainedly of this and that We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery We found that the thin snow on the grass Was already transparent with rain; And boards had been laid upon it That we might walk without wetting our feet.
V When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles In many lengths along a wall I was dissappointed to find That I could not play music upon them: I ran my hand lightly across them And they fell, tinkling.
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life Will not be too great.
VI It is now two hours since I left you, And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands.
And though since then I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground Under the trees, I still remember the sound of your laughter.
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you Even as long as this? Will the dust braid your hair? VII The day opens with the brown light of snowfall And past the window snowflakes fall and fall.
I sit in my chair all day and work and work Measuring words against each other.
I open the piano and play a tune But find it does not say what I feel, I grow tired of measuring words against each other, I grow tired of these four walls, And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter And named her after your first sweetheart, And you, who break your heart, far away, In the confusion and savagery of a long war, And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, Will soon go south.
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light Past my window, And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge.
This alone comes to me out of the world outside As I measure word with word.
VIII Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, Many things are locked away in the white book of stars Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned, And the mooned leaves; And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled, I light a small light in a small room, The lighted walls come closer to me, The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming From I know not where.
How many times have I sat here, How many times will I sit here again, Thinking these same things over and over in solitude As a child says over and over The first word he has learned to say.
IX This girl gave her heart to me, And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me, And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.
Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, And arrange them for you in a wide bowl To be set in sunlight? See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you— 'This girl gave her heart to me And this, and this, .
.
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! And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them, When I think their names, And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown And will lie, at last, forgotten, Under the snow.
X It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling, And no wind grieves the walls.
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls.
The street grows silent.
The last stranger passes.
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.
What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this, Takes possession of my heart? Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden, With pink blossoms among dark leaves, Standing, surprised, in the snow? Why do I think of spring? The snowflakes, helplessly veering,, Fall silently past my window; They come from darkness and enter darkness.
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered Like that camellia tree, Beautiful still in its glittering anguish? And spring so far away! XI As I walked through the lamplit gardens, On the thin white crust of snow, So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune, So clearly were my eyes fixed On the face of this grief which has come to me, That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring Of lamplight on the snow; Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees; And yet these things were there, And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there, As I have seen them so often before; As they will be so often again Long after my grief is forgotten.
And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.
XII How many times have we been interrupted Just as I was about to make up a story for you! One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree.
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself A little tent of light in the darkness! And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,— We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us And the plat-plat of drops on the window, And we ran to watch the rain Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field! Or at other times it was because we saw a star Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off, Among pine-dark hills; Or because we found a crimson eft Darting in the cold grass! These things interrupted us and left us wondering; And the stories, whatever they might have been, Were never told.
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing? A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb? A love-story of long ago? Some day, just as we are beginning again, Just as we blow the first sweet note, Death itself will interrupt us.
XIII My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house, In the very centre, dark and forgotten, Is a locked room where an enchanted princess Lies sleeping.
But sometimes, in that dark house, As if almost from the stars, far away, Sounds whisper in that secret room— Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter? And suddenly, from her long sleep, The beautiful princess awakes and dances.
Who is she? I do not know.
Why does she dance? Do not ask me!— Yet to-day, when I saw you, When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness, And your mouth trembling into a smile, And your fingers pull shyly forward,— Softly, in that room, The little princess arose And danced; And as she danced the old house gravely trembled With its vague and delicious secret.
XIV Like an old tree uprooted by the wind And flung down cruelly With roots bared to the sun and stars And limp leaves brought to earth— Torn from its house— So do I seem to myself When you have left me.
XV The music of the morning is red and warm; Snow lies against the walls; And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin— The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid; The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west, The delicate lights begin to twinkle On the dusky arches of the bridge: In the green sky a long cloud, A smouldering wave of smoky crimson, Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed, Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant, Sings the first star.
Written by Bliss Carman | Create an image from this poem

The Winter Scene

 I
The rutted roads are all like iron; skies
Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling
In the bare woods, or the hardy bitter-sweet;
Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on;
And all the ponds are sealed with sheeted ice
That rings with stroke of skate and hockey-stick,
Or in the twilight cracks with running whoop.
Bring in the logs of oak and hickory, And make an ample blaze on the wide hearth.
Now is the time, with winter o'er the world, For books and friends and yellow candle-light, And timeless lingering by the settling fire.
While all the shuddering stars are keen with cold.
II Out from the silent portal of the hours, When frosts are come and all the hosts put on.
Their burnished gear to march across the night And o'er a darkened earth in splendor shine, Slowly above the world Orion wheels His glittering square, while on the shadowy hill And throbbing like a sea-light through the dusk, Great Sirius rises in his flashing blue.
Lord of the winter night, august and pure, Returning year on year untouched by time, To hearten faith with thine unfaltering fire, There are no hurts that beauty cannot ease, No ills that love cannot at last repair, In the victorious progress of the soul.
III Russet and white and gray is the oak wood In the great snow.
Still from the North it comes, Whispering, settling, sifting through the trees, O'erloading branch and twig.
The road is lost.
Clearing and meadow, stream and ice-bound pond Are made once more a trackless wilderness In the white hush where not a creature stirs; And the pale sun is blotted from the sky.
In that strange twilight the lone traveller halts To listen to the stealthy snowflakes fall.
And then far off toward the Stamford shore, Where through the storm the coastwise liners go, Faint and recurrent on the muffled air, A foghorn booming through the Smother--hark! IV When the day changed and the mad wind died down, The powdery drifts that all day long had blown Across the meadows and the open fields, Or whirled like diamond dust in the bright sun, Settled to rest, and for a tranquil hour The lengthening bluish shadows on the snow Stole down the orchard slope, and a rose light Flooded the earth with beauty and with peace.
Then in the west behind the cedars black The sinking sun stained red the winter dusk With sullen flare upon the snowy ridge,-- As in a masterpiece by Hokusai, Where on a background gray, with flaming breath A scarlet dragon dies in dusky gold.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Fairy Tale

 Now this is the story of Olaf
Who ages and ages ago
Lived right on the top of a mountain,
A mountain all covered with snow.
And he was quite pretty and tiny With beautiful curling fair hair And small hands like delicate flowers-- Cheeks kissed by the cold mountain air.
He lived in a hut made of pinewood Just one little room and a door A table, a chair, and a bedstead And animal skins on the floor.
Now Olaf was partly fairy And so never wanted to eat; He thought dewdrops and raindrops were plenty And snowflakes and all perfumes sweet.
In the daytime when sweeping and dusting And cleaning were quite at an end, He would sit very still on the doorstep And dream--O, that he had a friend! Somebody to come when he called them, Somebody to catch by the hand, Somebody to sleep with at night time, Somebody who'd quite understand.
One night in the middle of Winter He lay wide awake on his bed, Outside there was fury of tempest And calling of wolves to be fed-- Thin wolves, grey and silent as shadows; And Olaf was frightened to death.
He had peeped through a crack in the doorpost, He had seen the white smoke of their breath.
But suddenly over the storm wind He heard a small voice pleadingly Cry, "I am a snow fairy, Olaf, Unfasten the window for me.
" So he did, and there flew through the opening The daintiest, prettiest sprite Her face and her dress and her stockings, Her hands and her curls were all white.
And she said, "O you poor little stranger Before I am melted, you know, I have brought you a valuable present, A little brown fiddle and bow.
So now you can never be lonely, With a fiddle, you see, for a friend, But all through the Summer and Winter Play beautiful songs without end.
" And then,--O she melted like water, But Olaf was happy at last; The fiddle he tucked in his shoulder, He held his small bow very fast.
So perhaps on the quietest of evenings If you listen, you may hear him soon, The child who is playing the fiddle Away up in the cold, lonely moon.
Written by Boris Pasternak | Create an image from this poem

Winter Night

 It snowed and snowed ,the whole world over,
Snow swept the world from end to end.
A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
As during summer midges swarm To beat their wings against a flame Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed To beat against the window pane The blizzard sculptured on the glass Designs of arrows and of whorls.
A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
Distorted shadows fell Upon the lighted ceiling: Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs- Of crossed destiny.
Two tiny shoes fell to the floor And thudded.
A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears Upon a dress.
All things vanished within The snowy murk-white,hoary.
A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
A corner draft fluttered the flame And the white fever of temptation Upswept its angel wings that cast A cruciform shadow It snowed hard throughout the month Of February, and almost constantly A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.


Written by Charles Kingsley | Create an image from this poem

Ode to the Northeast Wind

 Welcome, wild Northeaster! 
Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr; 
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black Northeaster! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home.
Tired are we of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day-- Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dike; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snowflakes Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave Northeaster! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow.
Who can override you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest tomorrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious Southwind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men.
What's the soft Southwester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their trueloves Out of all the seas.
But the black Northeaster, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong, within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!
Written by Duncan Campbell Scott | Create an image from this poem

The Forsaken

 I 
Once in the winter
Out on a lake
In the heart of the north-land,
Far from the Fort
And far from the hunters,
A Chippewa woman
With her sick baby,
Crouched in the last hours
Of a great storm.
Frozen and hungry, She fished through the ice With a line of the twisted Bark of the cedar, And a rabbit-bone hook Polished and barbed; Fished with the bare hook All through the wild day, Fished and caught nothing; While the young chieftain Tugged at her breasts, Or slept in the lacings Of the warm tikanagan.
All the lake-surface Streamed with the hissing Of millions of iceflakes Hurled by the wind; Behind her the round Of a lonely island Roared like a fire With the voice of the storm In the deeps of the cedars.
Valiant, unshaken, She took of her own flesh, Baited the fish-hook, Drew in a gray-trout, Drew in his fellows, Heaped them beside her, Dead in the snow.
Valiant, unshaken, She faced the long distance, Wolf-haunted and lonely, Sure of her goal And the life of her dear one: Tramped for two days, On the third in the morning, Saw the strong bulk Of the Fort by the river, Saw the wood-smoke Hand soft in the spruces, Heard the keen yelp Of the ravenous huskies Fighting for whitefish: Then she had rest.
II Years and years after, When she was old and withered, When her son was an old man And his children filled with vigour, They came in their northern tour on the verge of winter, To an island in a lonely lake.
There one night they camped, and on the morrow Gathered their kettles and birch-bark Their rabbit-skin robes and their mink-traps, Launched their canoes and slunk away through the islands, Left her alone forever, Without a word of farewell, Because she was old and useless, Like a paddle broken and warped, Or a pole that was splintered.
Then, without a sigh, Valiant, unshaken, She smoothed her dark locks under her kerchief, Composed her shawl in state, Then folded her hands ridged with sinews and corded with veins, Folded them across her breasts spent with the nourishment of children, Gazed at the sky past the tops of the cedars, Saw two spangled nights arise out of the twilight, Saw two days go by filled with the tranquil sunshine, Saw, without pain, or dread, or even a moment of longing: Then on the third great night there came thronging and thronging Millions of snowflakes out of a windless cloud; They covered her close with a beautiful crystal shroud, Covered her deep and silent.
But in the frost of the dawn, Up from the life below, Rose a column of breath Through a tiny cleft in the snow, Fragile, delicately drawn, Wavering with its own weakness, In the wilderness a sign of the spirit, Persisting still in the sight of the sun Till day was done.
Then all light was gathered up by the hand of God and hid in His breast, Then there was born a silence deeper than silence, Then she had rest.
Written by Anna Akhmatova | Create an image from this poem

Memory Of Sun

 Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
Grass grows yellower.
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes Hover, hover.
Water becoming ice is slowing in The narrow channels.
Nothing at all will happen here again, Will ever happen.
Against the sky the willow spreads a fan The silk's torn off.
Maybe it's better I did not become Your wife.
Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
What is it? -- Dark? Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us In the night.
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Nocturne

 Always I knew that it could not last
(Gathering clouds, and the snowflakes flying),
Now it is part of the golden past
(Darkening skies, and the night-wind sighing);
It is but cowardice to pretend.
Cover with ashes our love's cold crater- Always I've known that it had to end Sooner or later.
Always I knew it would come like this (Pattering rain, and the grasses springing), Sweeter to you is a new love's kiss (Flickering sunshine, and young birds singing).
Gone are the raptures that once we knew, Now you are finding a new joy greater- Well, I'll be doing the same thing, too, Sooner or later.
Written by Elinor Wylie | Create an image from this poem

The Fairy Goldsmith

 Here's a wonderful thing, 
A humming-bird's wing 
In hammered gold, 
And store well chosen 
Of snowflakes frozen 
In crystal cold.
Black onyx cherries And mistletoe berries Of chrysoprase, Jade buds, tight shut, All carven and cut In intricate ways.
Here, if you please Are little gilt bees In amber drops Which look like honey, Translucent and sunny, From clover-tops.
Here's an elfin girl Of mother-of-pearl And moonshine made, With tortise-shell hair Both dusky and fair In its light and shade.
Here's lacquer laid thin, Like a scarlet skin On an ivory fruit; And a filigree frost Of frail notes lost From a fairy lute.
Here's a turquoise chain Of sun-shower rain To wear if you wish; And glittering green With aquamarine, A silvery fish.
Here are pearls all strung On a thread among Pretty pink shells; And bubbles blown From the opal stone Which ring like bells.
Touch them and take them, But do not break them! Beneath your hand They will wither like foam If you carry them home Out of fairy-lannd.
O, they never can last Though you hide them fast From moth and from rust; In your monstrous day They will crumble away Into quicksilver dust.

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