A Winter's portrait, so bountiful,

       Nature's gift indeed...

Though lurking are the lifeless flowers

       Returned to earth as seed.

All sacred gifts sent unto us

Are made by God's own hands -

And always, they are precious ones

To love just as He plans!

While lillies in the valley rest,

And clad are crystal trees...

A lifeless day revives the soul

Through snowflakes on a breeze.

These heavenly troves to come our way,

       So beautiful, big or small...

Will touch our lives through each new day -

       God's gifts... they're best of all!

Dianne Cogar

The winter comes; I walk alone,

I want no bird to sing;

To those who keep their hearts their own

The winter is the spring.

No flowers to please--no bees to hum--

The coming spring's already come.

I never want the Christmas rose

To come before it's time;

The seasons, each as God bestows,

Are simple and sublime.

I love to see the snowstorm hing;

'Tis but the winter garb of spring.

I never want the grass to bloom:

The snowstorm's best in white.

I love to see the tempest come

And love it's piercing light.

The dazzled eyes that love to cling

O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.

I love the snow, the crumbling snow

That hangs on everything.

It covers everything below

Like white dove's brooding wing,

A landscape to the aching sight,

A vast expanse of dazzing light.

It is the foliage of the woods

That winters bring--the dress,

White Easter of the year in bud,

That makes the winter Spring.

The frost and snow his poises bring,

Nature's white spruts of the spring.

John Clare (1793 - 1864)

Who shall declare the joy of running!

Who shall tell the pleasures of flight!

Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,

Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.

Everything mortal has moments immortal,

Swift and God gifted, immeasurably bright.

So with the stretch of the white road before me,

Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,

Fields that are white, staines with long, cool, blue shadows,

Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.

Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!

Joy!  With the vigorous earth I am one.

Amy Lowell (1874 - 1925 )