La Neige, Charles-François Daubigny (1873)
The snow’s cold whiteness creeps up to my door
While the melancholy sun bids farewell
Mystically crows swarm more than five score
There is an urgent message they must tell
Raising my shovel they will not scatter
With great fear I hold my quivering breath
It’s easy to understand their banter
These darkened creatures sing their song of death
Where summer they’d quietly steal my corn
Autumn barren fields provide easy prey
Not here to repay my gun’s bitter scorn
No they’re just here to say this is my day
Would prefer a single singing angel
Rather than this rowdy crowd of babel
Snow Scene through a Winter Window, Henry Alexander (1870)
Under blankets, another frigid night
Could feel aching chill in my weary bones
Feared what horror there would be my first sight
Feeling confident would be many moans
Looking through button holes, saw the bright white
Tired of the piling up of winter’s snow
This freezing matter is no longer trite
Miserable stuff really must go
A death row prisoner is what I am
Give me my last meal and be done with it
Never have been fan of winter’s program
Ever bored of doing nothing but sit
For the joy of spring I hunger and thirst
Can I survive, it’s but November first
Wintry Landscape with Frozen Water and Figure Statues, Johann Jungblut (c. 1900)
Winters Past, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
The glittering glow of winter’s first snow,
It is that time of year of so much cheer,
When Jack Frost puts on his seasonal show,
A time when we wish our love ones be near.
Is not a time to bundle up and hide.
Lights in each window to beckon with bliss.
Come in and sit awhile by the fireside,
Search for the mistletoe to get a kiss.
Turkey and toys, memories full of joy,
Sledding and skating for all of the day.
This is what I remember as a boy,
Now I see it in a different way.
Stress from hunger and pain are in full view.
Was it the same then I just never knew?
Frederick Childe Hassam, Late Afternoon, New York Winter (1900)
Late Afternoon, New York Winter, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
The frozen aimless dust of pearly white,
Stings my naked face then quickly vanished.
Straining, squinting; trying to keep my sight.
My skin shines as if it has been varnished.
My numb dew-beaters now no longer known,
Departed somewhere near Twentieth Street.
Now these cat-sticks of mine begin to moan.
What I’d willingly give to feel some heat!
Those who think this is a beautiful sight,
Are under cover; each in their taxi,
With no compassion for my nasty plight.
For me this winter night there’ll be no glee!
Pray tell, when will the crocus start to grow?
Not soon enough to get rid of this snow!