Print #34: Winter Trees Parade

In the fog of the winter day, this elegant line of trees spread their branches, as if parading themselves for all to see. This photograph instills a sense of mystery and magic that winter brings.

Inspirational Poems

Winter in the Boulevard
D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). New Poems. 1916.

THE FROST has settled down upon the trees
And ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies
Of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old
Romantic stories now no more to be told.

The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought,
Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught
In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront
Implacable winter’s long, cross-questioning brunt.

Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths of the twigs?
Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the birch?—
It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on the sprigs,
Sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with their perch.

The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.
Like vivid thought the air spins bright, and all
Trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought
Awaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.

After the Winter
Claude McKay (1890–1948)

SOME day, when trees have shed their leaves,
And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we will build a lonely nest
Beside an open glade,
And there forever will we rest,
O love—O nut-brown maid!

It Is in Winter That We Dream of Spring
By Robert Burns Wilson

IT is in Winter that we dream of Spring;
For all the barren bleakness and the cold,
The longing fancy sees the frozen mould
Decked with sweet blossoming.

Though all the birds be silent,—though
The fettered stream’s soft voice be still,
And on the leafless bough the snow
Be rested, marble-like and chill,—
Yet will the fancy build, from these,
The transient but well-pleasing dream
Of leaf and bloom among the trees,
And sunlight glancing on the stream.

Though, to the eye, the joyless landscape yields
No faintest sign to which the hope might cling,—
Amidst the pallid desert of the fields,—
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring.

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