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luister
ik ben de profeet
van de herfst
het blad dat niet wil vallen
de twijfelende sneeuw
ik neem toe
toe tot in het duister
Messias van de winter
en loop over water
verlies in godsnaam je heldenmoed
Bert Bevers
luister
(Uit: De stilte voor de winter, Uitgeverij WEL, Bergen op Zoom, 1973)
Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver. Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Autumn, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Le Jardin des Tuileries
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square,
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band—
And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
And children climbed me, for their sake
Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!
Oscar Wilde
(1854- 1900)
Le Jardin des Tuileries
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive W-X, Archive W-X, FDM in Paris, Wilde, Oscar, Wilde, Oscar
To a Wreath of Snow
O transient voyager of heaven!
O silent sign of winter skies!
What adverse wind thy sail has driven
To dungeons where a prisoner lies?
Methinks the hands that shut the sun
So sternly from this morning’s brow
Might still their rebel task have done
And checked a thing so frail as thou.
They would have done it had they known
The talisman that dwelt in thee,
For all the suns that ever shone
Have never been so kind to me!
For many a week, and many a day
My heart was weighed with sinking gloom
When morning rose in mourning grey
And faintly lit my prison room
But angel like, when I awoke,
Thy silvery form, so soft and fair
Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke
Of cloudy skies and mountains bare;
The dearest to a mountaineer
Who, all life long has loved the snow
That crowned his native summits drear,
Better, than greenest plains below.
And voiceless, soulless, messenger
Thy presence waked a thrilling tone
That comforts me while thou art here
And will sustain when thou art gone
Emily Brontë
(1818—1848)
To a Wreath of Snow
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Brontë, Anne, Emily & Charlotte
Snow
Look up…
From bleakening hills
Blows down the light, first breath
Of wintry wind…look up, and scent
The snow!
Adelaide Crapsey
(1878—1914)
Snow
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Crapsey, Adelaide
Old and New Year Ditties
New Year met me somewhat sad:
Old Year leaves me tired,
Stripped of favourite things I had
Baulked of much desired:
Yet farther on my road to-day
God willing, farther on my way.
New Year coming on apace
What have you to give me?
Bring you scathe, or bring you grace,
Face me with an honest face;
You shall not deceive me:
Be it good or ill, be it what you will,
It needs shall help me on my road,
My rugged way to heaven, please God…
Christina Rossetti
(1830-1894)
Old and New Year Ditties
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *The Pre-Raphaelites Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina
Christmas Carol
The kings they came from out the south,
All dressed in ermine fine;
They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,
And gifts of precious wine.
The shepherds came from out the north,
Their coats were brown and old;
They brought Him little new-born lambs—
They had not any gold.
The wise men came from out the east,
And they were wrapped in white;
The star that led them all the way
Did glorify the night.
The angels came from heaven high,
And they were clad with wings;
And lo, they brought a joyful song
The host of heaven sings.
The kings they knocked upon the door,
The wise men entered in,
The shepherds followed after them
To hear the song begin.
The angels sang through all the night
Until the rising sun,
But little Jesus fell asleep
Before the song was done.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
Christmas Carol
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
The Holy Night
We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
Softened their horned faces
To almost human gazes
Toward the newly Born:
The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
Brought their visionary looks,
As yet in their astonished hearing rung
The strange sweet angel-tongue:
The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
With long pale beards,
their gifts upon the ground,
The incense, myrrh, and gold
These baby hands were impotent to hold:
So let all earthlies and celestials wait
Upon thy royal state.
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
(1806-1861)
The Holy Night
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Barrett Browning, Elizabeth
The Snow-Storm
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 – 1882)
The Snow-Storm
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Emerson, Ralph Waldo
New Year’s Eve
There are only two things now,
The great black night scooped out
And this fire-glow.
This fire-glow, the core,
And we the two ripe pips
That are held in store.
Listen, the darkness rings
As it circulates round our fire.
Take off your things.
Your shoulders, your bruised throat!
Your breasts, your nakedness!
This fiery coat!
As the darkness flickers and dips,
As the fireflight falls and leaps
From your feet to your lips!
D. H. Lawrence
(1885 – 1930)
New Year’s Eve
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
December 31, 2024
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, D.H. Lawrence, Lawrence, D.H.
Winters erfrecht
Gesloten luiken, gezegende ogen.
Het mededogen van sneeuw
verrast zelfs kinderen.
Er gaat geen eeuw voorbij
als er niets gebeurt.
Geheugen van geuren
is legendarisch.
Bert Bevers
Winters erfrecht
Eigen terrein,
Uitgeverij WEL, Bergen op Zoom, 2013
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
I Sought the Wood in Winter
I sought the wood in summer
When every twig was green;
The rudest boughs were tender,
And buds were pink between.
Light-fingered aspens trembled
In fitful sun and shade,
And daffodils were golden
In every starry glade.
The brook sang like a robin—
My hand could check him where
The lissome maiden willows
Shook out their yellow hair.
“How frail a thing is Beauty,”
I said, “when every breath
She gives the vagrant summer
But swifter woos her death.
For this the star dust troubles,
For this have ages rolled:
To deck the wood for bridal
And slay her with the cold.”
I sought the wood in winter
When every leaf was dead;
Behind the wind-whipped branches
The winter sun set red.
The coldest star was rising
To greet that bitter air,
The oaks were writhen giants;
Nor bud nor bloom was there.
The birches, white and slender,
In deathless marble stood,
The brook, a white immortal,
Slept silent in the wood.
“How sure a thing is Beauty,”
I cried. “No bolt can slay,
No wave nor shock despoil her,
No ravishers dismay.
Her warriors are the angels
That cherish from afar,
Her warders people Heaven
And watch from every star.
The granite hills are slighter,
The sea more like to fail;
Behind the rose the planet,
The Law behind the veil.”
Willa Cather
(1873 – 1947)
I Sought the Wood in Winter
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive C-D, Archive C-D
A Wintry Sonnet
A robin said: The Spring will never come,
And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
Because earth’s rivers cannot fill the main.
When springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
And trilled a lover’s song in sheer delight.
Gray hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
Dimpled his blue, – yet thirsted evermore.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
A Wintry Sonnet
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina
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