Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

Up in the morning’s no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw,
I’m sure its winter fairly.

• From Robert Burns’ ‘Up in the Morning Early’

Join us for a short course focusing on the poetry of winter. Unlike most of our previous close reading sessions, rather than reading work by a single poet we will instead explore lots of poems that all explore the same theme. Led by poet and lecturer Mariah Whelan.

We will journey from some of the earliest writings in English right up to the present day as Mariah gently guides us on a tour of ‘the frosty season’ as interpreted by some of the world’s very best poets.

These sessions are suitable for newcomers as well as those experienced in close reading as we explore together ideas of language, form, sound and imagery in these wintry poems through a series of carefully curated exercises.

Two sessions, Sundays 14 December and 21 December 2025
2.00-4.00 pm British Time (GMT)
3.00-5.00 pm Central European Time

To book, scroll down and click on the image below.

West Wind in Winter
Alice Meynell

Another day awakes. And who —
   Changing the world — is this?
He comes at whiles, the Winter through,
   West Wind! I would not miss
His sudden tryst: the long, the new
   Surprises of his kiss.

Vigilant, I make haste to close
   With him who comes my way.
I go to meet him as he goes;
   I know his note, his lay,
His colour and his morning rose;
   And I confess his day.

My window waits; at dawn I hark
   His call; at morn I meet
His haste around the tossing park
   And down the softened street;
The gentler light is his; the dark,
   The grey — he turns it sweet.

So too, so too, do I confess
   My poet when he sings.
He rushes on my mortal guess
   With his immortal things.
I feel, I know him. On I press —
   He finds me ’twixt his wings.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

To book, click on the image below.