"The First Snowfall" by James Russell Lowell

 

The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all night

Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,

The stiff rails softened to swan's-down,

And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window

The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,

Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,

As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"

And I told of the good All-Father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,

And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o'er our first great sorrow,

When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow,

Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered,

"The snow that husheth all,

Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her:

And she, kissing back, could not know

That my kiss was given to her sister,

Folded close under deepening snow.

Peter Rotter

"Dawn Revisited" by Rita Dove

 

Imagine you wake up

with a second chance: The blue jay

hawks his pretty wares

and the oak still stands, spreading

glorious shade. If you don't look back,

the future never happens.

How good to rise in sunlight,

in the prodigal smell of biscuits—

eggs and sausage on the grill.

The whole sky is yours

to write on, blown open

to a blank page. Come on,

shake a leg! You'll never know

who's down there, frying those eggs,

if you don't get up and see.

T.F. Simon

"Kinder than Man" by Althea Davis

And God,

please let the deer

on the highway

get some kind of heaven.

Something with tall soft grass

and sweet reunion.

Let the moths in porch lights

go some place

with a thousand suns,

that taste like sugar

and get swallowed whole.

May the mice

in oil and glue

have forever dry, warm fur

and full bellies.

If I am killed

for simply living,

let death be kinder

than man.

Beth Affolter

[I wish I were her Nubian maid]

(Boy)

I wish I were her Nubian maid,

        her attendant in secret,

                as she brings her a bowl of mandragoras.

It is in her hand,

        while she gives pleasure.

In other words:

she would grant me

        the hue of her whole body.

(Boy)

I wish I were the laundryman

        of my beloved's clothes,

                for even just a month!

I would be strengthened

        by grasping the garments

                that touch her body.

For I would be washing out the moringa oils

        that are in her kerchief.

Then I'd rub my body

        with her castoff garments,

                and she ...

O how I would be in joy and delight,

        my body vigorous!

(Boy)

I wish I were her little signet ring,

        the keeper of her finger!

I would see her love

        each and every day,

And I would steal her heart.

Albert Schnyder

"Voices" by C.P. Cavafy

Ideal voices, the beloved voices

of those who have died or of those who are

lost to us as if they were dead.

Sometimes they speak to us in dreams;

sometimes, in thought, the mind hears them.

And with their sounds for a moment return

sounds from our life's first poetry --

like music at night, far off, fading out.

Kimio Muraoka

"A Blessing" by James Wright

 

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness   
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.   
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.   
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me   
And nuzzled my left hand.   
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Jan Hendrik Scheltema

"Little Father" by Li-Young Lee

I buried my father
in the sky.
Since then, the birds
clean and comb him every morning   
and pull the blanket up to his chin   
every night.

I buried my father underground.   
Since then, my ladders
only climb down,
and all the earth has become a house   
whose rooms are the hours, whose doors   
stand open at evening, receiving   
guest after guest.
Sometimes I see past them
to the tables spread for a wedding feast.

I buried my father in my heart.
Now he grows in me, my strange son,   
my little root who won’t drink milk,   
little pale foot sunk in unheard-of night,   
little clock spring newly wet
in the fire, little grape, parent to the future   
wine, a son the fruit of his own son,   
little father I ransom with my life. 

Liu Xiaodong