Here's a poem from my great, great, great, great uncle Archibald Lampman, who was said to be the "finest 19th-century English-language poet."I think he's pretty cool.
| Winter Evening: Westward the sunset is waning slow, A far torn flame on the silent snow And dies, as the vast night waxes higher, In scattering lines of stormy fire. The piled clouds are sinking dreary and dun | |
| On the red wild track of the setting sun Westward the fierce winds gather and fleet Mightily down the frozen street. Like the work of the painter's hand are pressed | |
| On the pale clear brow of the yellow west, The pointed spires and the dark and still Towers of the town on the western hill. Far through the firmament, misty fair, | |
| Veiled and dimmed with their golden hair, The moon and her chorus of sweet stars whirl In their white torn mantles of cloudy pearl. The hard snow shrieks on the beaten street — | |
| Under the tread of the hurrying feet, Sharp and shrill, like a thing in pain, Bound in the winter's Titan chain. Westward away the wan day sinks; | |
| I see, as I pass, through the shutter chinks The bright ruddy lips of children prate Round the red warm hearth and the blazing grate. Ah, bright bitter winter, I love thee still | |
| For thy strong bright wine to the strong man's will: For thy stormy days of tempest and moil, And thy calm sweet peace that follows toil; For thy bright white snow and the silver chime | |
| Of bells that gladden the bitter time; For the laughing lips and the children at play And the long mirthful hours that sweeten day For more, check out the Poems of Archibald Lampman. |
