Winter Poems

"Lake Wynonah Snow"

For my 24th Frazzled at Forty podcast
episode entitled, "Snowcast", I discussed all things snow while taking a snow day from work. I hate to say it but when you are an adult and take a snow day, it usually does not mean it's gonna be that fun. It usually comes down to spending your day shoveling at different times to keep up with the snow OR doing housework, dishes, laundry etc.

This particular snow day was no different. I enjoyed my morning coffee and grabbed a bite to eat the day's news but then I got my ass up to work on stuff around the house. I also took a nap for a bit. Well shoveling is exhausting! Or perhaps it was the whiskey I was sipping while shoveling....

At the end of each podcast, I recite a famous quote which is complimentary to the topic at hand. For the "Snowcast" podcast, I decided to do something different and recite a winter poem. I enjoyed researching the winter poetry and read close to 15. I settle on the two below. One by Romantic poet Thomas Hardy and the other by the famed American poet Robert Frost.

Frazzled at Forty Podcast:
http://frazzled.projectentertainment.libsynpro.com/frazzled-at-forty-episode-24-snowcast

The Darkling Thrush

by Thomas Hardy  1900

I leant upon a coppice gate

When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

     The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

     Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

     Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seems to be

     The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

     he Wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

     Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

     Seemed as fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

     The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

     Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush frail, gaunt, and small,

     In blast-beruffled plum,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

     Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

     Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

     Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

     his happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

     And I was unaware.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost  1922

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake

The only other sounds the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

but I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.