“The Touches of Winter are Round us; and Weather yet Wilder Draws Nigh…” Or: a Winter Poem:

It has become somewhat customary here to usher in Christmas with some Victorian festive poetry, and this year will be no different. There’s something about nineteenth century winter and Christmas-themed poems that really evoke – to me, anyway – the spirit of past Christmasses; and by that I don’t mean Victorian Christmas necessarily, but even festive periods as early as twenty or thirty years ago, when, to me, Christmas seemed a little more simple than it does now.

Perhaps it was just where I was living at the time, or maybe (more likely) that I was a child, but I’m sure there were more carol singers, snowy days and a shorter build-up to Christmas than now; but maybe I look upon the past with rosy spectacles.

Today’s poem is not one about Christmas, but rather, now that there is a chill upon the air and we’ve had a little snowfall here in Britain this week, one about winter.

If you find modern-day Christmas a little bit of a blur, then I hope you’ll enjoy the simple spirit of the poems featured here over the next couple of weeks.

'London in Winter' by William Walcot, 1909 

Here’s this year’s first:

An Old Body's Winter Song.

The touches of Winter are round us;

He is busy with wind and with rain,

The leaves are all swept from the branches,

The pools are brimful in the lane.

How sombre the noontide! how sullen

The lowlands, where snowflakes fly fast!

How plaintive the notes of the robin!

For Winter has reached us at last.

The touches of Winter are on us;

Our cheeks waning pallid and thin,

Our eyes fading slowly in colour,

Bespeak some sure fading within.

But if mind has grown larger and purer,

Its thoughts and its aims all more clear,

Its perceptions of truth all corrected,

We care not tho' Winter is here.

The touches of Winter are on us;

Our hands are now feeble and slow,

Our feet totter round the small garden -

Are chilly beside the hearth glow.

But if in the long past behind us

Our words and our works have been great

In number and kind, and refreshing,

We welcome our winter estate.

The touches of Winter are on us;

How dull beats the heart in the breast!

The breath comes and goes in long pauses,

We are fond of our room and our rest.

But if the soul's hope has been garnered,

The will trained to strike passion dumb,

Tho' bruises and blood linger on us,

We are thankful our winter has come.

The touches of Winter are round us;

And weather yet wilder draws nigh,

Stormy days with their weltering cloud rack,

Frigid nights with no star in the sky.

But if in the world beyond this world

Springs life free from cold or decay,

Oh, Winter, you herald His working

Whose will is as right as His way.

                                                              - Alfred Norris, from Leisure Hour, 1877

More festive poetry next week, and if you’ve enjoyed this, click on the ‘poetry’ label in the ‘looking for something specific?’ list of words on the right more.