Even if the only poetry you’ve ever read was in high school when the teacher made you do so — blasted adults — you likely intuited that there was something rather different, scope-wise, about the verse of winter from the verse of the warmer seasons.
The latter often enough featured the imagery of green fields and forests fit for Robin Hood to come strolling along and challenge all to an archer’s contest, with fireflies in the night and, if you were reading for deeper meanings, boundless futures comfortingly equipped with boundless possibilities. A poetry one might consider as more laden with hope than head — as I think of it, that special cognizance that has little to do with external vistas and more to do with buffeting internal winds. That is the poetry of the winter.
Not terribly cheery, you might say, and not what we think of at Christmas, but it was perhaps the most winter-based of all poets, in terms of the ideas coursing through his poems, who had his greatest epiphany during the season. More… “A Keatsian Christmas”