Lake/Autumn/Winter Poetry

[thinkxingu]

Some of the posts on the "get out and enjoy the foliage" thread got me thinking of some of my favorite poems, so I thought I'd start a thread of lake-related, NHery, or autumn/winter poetry suggestions.

Two of my favorites: Robert Frost's "The Star-Splitter" and Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays."

Whatchoo got?

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[mcdude]

Nothing Gold Can Stay


Robert Frost - 1874-1963



Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

[Chickie]

Autumn - Eliza Lee Follen (1787 - 1860)

Sweet summer, with her flowers, has past:
I hear her parting knell;
I hear the moaning, fitful blast,
Sighing a sad farewell.

But while she fades, and dies away,
In rainbow hues she glows;
Like the last smile of parting day,
Still brightening as she goes.

The robin whistles clear and shrill;
Sad is the cricket’s song;
The wind, wild, rushing o’er the hill,
Bears the dead leaf along.

I love this sober, solemn time,
This twilight of the year;
To me, sweet spring, in all her prime,
Was never half so dear.

(Found in a book of Eliza Lee (Cabot) Follen’s poems published in Boston, Mass. in 1839)
This poem was later adapted to a song in my grammar school music book under the title of “Summer Has Past.” My 5th grade teacher gave me a copy of the old book on the last day of school, as it was going to be discarded due to its dilapidated condition. I have treasured it to this day.

[LoveLakeLife]

What a great story and a great poem Chickie. Now I want some cider donuts.


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[Poor Richard]

I go with original material only so:


Winni is big
Winni is grand
Winni is New Hampshire's largest lake in all of the land

Winter ice is formed we call that "ice in"
"Ice out" tells us when out-of-staters return once again

Wake boats are fun but they cause such a splash
Whipping up the coves, upsetting our visitors from Mass

With all of the people and boaters around
Some with their fancy boats and speakers making all sorts of sound
A loon can be heard calling across the lake
Does loon taste any good after it's baked?

The Big Lake is loved and enjoyed by the many
With 288 miles of shoreline the are sights aplenty

I'll wrap this up with one last line
Visit the lake, have a good time!

[SailinAway]

Off topic (sorry): Sadly, I have lost the poem I wrote that was inspired by a fall night on a mountaintop, but I will share the experience.

In late fall many years ago I backpacked up Hurricane Mountain (3694') in the Adirondacks. I pitched my tent in the trees a short distance from the summit. I was not prepared for how cold it got that night. After doing everything I could to get warm in my tent and shivering for a couple of hours, I gave up, packed my sleeping back in my backpack, and headed up the trail to the summit. In those days, we didn't have headlamps and lanterns like today. I lit my way with a candle. At the top I hunkered down out of the wind between some rocks, pulled my sleeping bag around me, and looked up at the sky. Sleep was out of the question, so I looked at the sky all night. So far from city lights, the stars were brilliant and I watched them turn about the sky all night. I've rarely seen such a bright sky. Many hours later a thin ring of light appeared on the horizon and slowly grew into a wider band. Finally it illuminated all the foliage in the valley below the mountain.

I never forgot this experience. It shook me up existentially. It taught me that beauty is always available to us, even in the midst of hardship, if we're willing to seek it, and that to be amazed and delighted takes effort but is well worth it. I still live by these principles today.

[camp guy]

Six plus years ago, a Forum poster identified as "Airedale 1" posted an original poem. I have received permission in the past to use this poem, so I decided to post it on the Forum, again, giving "Airedale 1" all the credit. So, to you, "Airedale 1", here is your poem:

ODE TO WINTER

It is winter in New Hampshire
And gentle breezes blow
Fifty miles an hour
At seventeen below

Oh, how I love New Hampshire
When the snow is up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut

Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I will hang around
I could never leave New Hampshire
'Cause I am frozen to the ground

[Dad207]

The Wind and the Leaves, George Cooper: 1840-1927

"Come, little leaves," said the wind one day.
"Come o'er the meadows with me, and play'
Put on your dress of red and gold,—
Summer is gone, and the days grow cold."

Soon as the leaves heard the wind's loud call,
Down they came fluttering, one and all;
Over the brown fields they danced and flew,
Singing the soft little songs they knew.

"Cricket, good-by, we've been friends so long;
Little brook, sing us your farewell song,—
Say you are sorry to see us go;
Ah! you will miss us, right well we know."

"Dear little lambs, in your fleecy fold,
Mother will keep you from harm and cold;
Fondly we've watched you in vale and glade;
Say, will you dream of our loving shade?"

Dancing and whirling, the little leaves went;
Winter had called them, and they were content.
Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds,
The snow laid a coverlet over their heads.

[Chickie]

The “Wind and the Leaves” poem brought back fond memories of my aunt, who recited it to me many times over the years. She was born in 1903 and attended Gilford Grade School in the village, from the time the family moved to Gilford in 1913. As was the custom in many elementary schools back then, students were encouraged to learn poems by heart. Throughout her lifetime she would recite this one and another one about “milkweed babies” that drifted away from their pods in the fall. She never forgot them even though she lived to be well into her 90’s. I never knew the name of the poet until now. Thank you, Dad207, for posting it.

[Dad207]

Chickie: You are welcome, glad you enjoyed it. My father recited a lot pf poetry to us growing up, some good, some less so. near the end of his life, when he did not recall my name, he could still recite a few old verses from Robert Service, a WWI poet. The memory still moves me.