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Wilfred Owen
The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.
From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.
There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows
Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
No more its airy visions of pure joy --
As when you were a boy.
There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay sat
His blue against its white -- O blue as jet
He seemed there then!-- But now -- Whoever knew
He was so pale a blue!
There was a cherry-tree -- our child-eyes saw
The miracle:-- Its pure white snows did thaw
Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet
But for a boy to eat.
There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!--
There was a bloom of snow -- There was a boy --
There was a bluejay of the realest blue --
And fruit for both of you.
Dying! Dying in the night!
Won't somebody bring the light
So I can see which way to go
Into the everlasting snow?
And "Jesus"! Where is Jesus gone?
They said that Jesus -- always came --
Perhaps he doesn't know the House --
This way, Jesus, Let him pass!
Somebody run to the great gate
And see if Dollie's coming! Wait!
I hear her feet upon the stair!
Death won't hurt -- now Dollie's here!
snow is the first
new world we howl at
lying down in it
at first without a sound
a great snow
the angry cook is given
warning again
The way the snow returns to the sky
is far more painstaking than the way it falls.
Near the end, it turns from ground to figure,
from canvas to paint. It scales the ladder
of its own self-effacement.
So the snow withdrew into a clef-shaped cleft
& waited for its cue. This winter could go
either way.
The witch hazel measured itself against an oak.
I want to be a tree, it sang, when I grow up –
A bird perch,
An insect metropolis,
A gallery of lichens above,
And below, a husband to fungi.
True, I am all these things already,
But not as a tree.
The surface tension of water, & how to use it
for nearly effortless walking.
Light without heat: what every glowworm knows.
What it means to be larval,
to have complicated mouthparts
& the sprout-tips of wings.
The secrets of chitin, which imposes limits to growth
through an architect’s dream of fully inhabitable space.
Why snow fleas persist in seeking their fortunes
on the skin of such a cold, white host.
What the inchworm really measures
with its green prostrations.
What this is that we are told
the meek
shall inherit.
Half-disappearing
behind a screen of falling snow –
drab autumn color.
what fear at every cough
in the coffee house
the poorest body
must be a winter
made of a hundred fish
with snow at the bottom
the dead come to life
flesh hollow as wax
they inhabit
the violence of the winds
and no dog but a wolf
could help us take joy
this rose in the snow
I fear it will be a while
before we meet
foolish world
they tell me the wind is dead
my old and most
ingenious acquaintance
the snow talking peace
like the evening light
Ice and snow
go into a tavern—
people demand them.
I kiss a lady on a card
and talk with a whistle.