Frost and sun, a wonderful day: a selection of statuses and quotes about winter. The first snow of the coming winter

Winter fairy tale.

Winter came. The trees in the forest were covered with fluffy snow. White-trunked birches hid in the snowy silence of the forest. All the trees have become fluffy from the snow.

Suddenly bright rays winter sun gently touched the snow-covered ground. And what happened? From their cold touch, fluffy snowflakes suddenly began to play on the snowy whiteness.

I like winter. It's a very beautiful time of the year!

Kuznetsov Andrey, 9 years old

Winter fairy tale.

Winter came. Outside the window, everything was covered with a white fluffy blanket. Somewhere in the forest fluffy spruces fell asleep.

It snowed recently. The snowdrifts became huge. When the breeze blows, shiny snowflakes will dance and rush on a new journey. For big snow covered trees the sun is not visible. You look out the window, and sadness, melancholy takes. But do not despair. After all, soon winter holidays, joy, fun!

Winter is just a wonderful time of the year.

Sorokin Alexander, 10 years old

Winter fairy tale.

Here comes the winter season. Birches hid in the silence of the winter forest. Elderly spruces wrap themselves chillily in their winter attire. The old stump is dozing, putting on a new hat. Nothing disturbs the winter silence until the morning. Only a sharp breath of the breeze can disturb the sleep of the forest.

But then the dim rays of the winter sun timidly touched the fluffy snow. And suddenly cold snowflakes began to play from their touch. A fat crow perched on a branch and disturbed the winter sleep. The tree shook its sleeve, and everything was quiet. How I love this time of year!

Munkueva Ekaterina, 10 years old

Winter fairy tale.

Winter came. Winter covered all the trees. The forest turned white, as if someone took a white coat and covered the beautiful forest. For him to fall asleep. It seems that winter has thrown fluffy snowflakes on the ground from above. They silently fell and fell on trees, on bushes, on the ground.

Shushlebin Grigory, 10 years old

Winter fairy tale.

The winter crept up slowly. The trees are wearing white coats. The little stump put on a new cap.

Suddenly a light breeze blew, the trees gently swayed. White snowflakes danced in the sky elegant dresses. The squirrel sat on a tree branch and examined the beauty of the winter forest. The sun lightly touched the ground, covered with a white veil.

In winter, the forest dresses up like a carnival. How beautiful winter forest!

Gufaizen Artyom, 10 years old

Winter fairy tale.

The beautiful winter has arrived. The trees were wrapped in snow-white outfits. Pines and spruces stand like Snow Maidens. The ground was covered with a large white blanket. An old stump sits in a beautiful and elegant fur coat. Snowflakes fly like little sparks.

Suddenly a light breeze blew. The trees waved their delicate sleeves. Looked tired of cold weather sun. It missed its bright and gentle rays through the cold gray snow. And now, after a moment, small icicles hang on the fir trees, like little bats upside down. Birds come hoping to find at least some food on the mighty branches of the cedar. I really like the fairy tale in the winter forest!

Tormozova Alexandra, 10 years old

These stories will inform children about such a season as winter, tell about the beauty of this season, about seasonal changes in nature, about the New Year and all winter holidays.

A story about winter "The Book of Winter"

Snow covered the whole earth with a white even layer. Fields and forest clearings are now like the smooth blank pages of some gigantic book. And whoever passes through them, everyone will sign: "There was such and such."

It snows during the day. When it's over, the pages are clean. You will come in the morning - the white pages are covered with many mysterious icons, dashes, dots, commas. So at night there were different forest dwellers walking, jumping, doing something.

Who was? What have you been doing?

We must quickly make out the incomprehensible signs, read the mysterious letters. It will snow again, and then, as if someone had turned the page, - again only clean, smooth White paper before your eyes.

A story about winter "New galoshes"

Has come real winter. The road stretched across the ice across the river. Frost drew whatever he wanted on the panes. And the streets were covered in deep snow.

“Tanyushka, dress properly,” Grandma said, “it’s not summer now.”

And she brought her a winter coat with a fur collar and a knitted woolen scarf from the closet. A few days later, Tanya's mother brought galoshes from the city for felt boots. The galoshes were new and shiny. If you run your finger over them, they will creak and sing! And when Tanya went out into the street, her footprints were printed in the snow, like gingerbread. Alyonka admired Tanya's galoshes, even touched them with her hand.

— What new! - she said.

Tanya looked at Alyonka, thought.

- Well, you want, let's share? - she said. - One galosh for you and one for me...

Alyona laughed.

- Lets do it!

But she looked at her boots and said:

- Yes, it won’t fit me - the boots are very large. Look at their noses!

Girlfriends walked down the street: what to play? Alyonka said:

- Let's go to the pond, let's ride on the ice!

“It’s good on the pond,” Tanya said, “just make a hole there.”

“So what?

“But my grandmother didn’t tell me to go to the ice-hole.”

Alyonka looked back at Tanya's hut:

- Your hut is over there, and the pond is over there. Grandma will see something, right?

Tanya and Alyonka ran to the pond, skated on the ice. And they returned home - they did not say anything to their grandmother.

But the grandmother went to the pond for water, returned and said:

- Tatyanka! And you still ran to the hole again?

Tanya rolled her eyes at her grandmother:

“But how did you see it, grandma?”

“I didn’t see you, but I saw your footprints,” said the grandmother. - Who else has such new galoshes? Oh, you don't listen, Tanya, to your grandmother!

Tanya lowered her eyes, paused, thought, and then said:

“Grandma, I won’t disobey any more!”

A story about winter "Forest in winter".

Can frost kill a tree?

Of course it can.

If the tree freezes through and through, to the very core, it will die. In especially severe winters with little snow, many trees die in our country, for the most part- young. All the trees would have perished if each tree hadn’t cunningly to keep warm in itself, not to allow frost deep inside itself.

Feeding, growing, producing offspring - all this requires a large expenditure of strength, energy, a large expenditure of one's heat. And now the trees, having gathered strength over the summer, refuse to eat by winter, stop eating, stop growing, do not spend energy on reproduction. They become inactive, fall into a deep sleep.

The leaves exhale a lot of heat, down with the leaves for the winter! Trees throw them off themselves, refuse them in order to keep the warmth necessary for life. And by the way, the leaves thrown from the branches, rotting on the ground, themselves give warmth and protect the delicate roots of trees from freezing.

Little of! Each tree has a shell that protects the living flesh of the plant from frost. All summer, every year, trees lay porous cork tissue under the skin of their trunk and branches - a dead layer. The cork does not let water or air through. The air stagnates in its pores and does not allow heat to radiate from the living body of the tree. How older tree, the thicker the cork layer is in it, which is why old, thick trees tolerate cold better than young trees with thin stems and branches.

Little and cork shell. If the bitter frost manages to break through under it, it will meet a reliable chemical defense in the living body of the plant. By winter, various salts and starch, converted into sugar, are deposited in the juices of trees. A solution of salts and sugar is very cold-resistant.

But the most best defense from frost - a fluffy snow cover. It is known that caring gardeners deliberately bend chilly young fruit trees to the ground and throw snow at them: this way they are warmer. In snowy winters, snow, like a duvet, covers the forest, and even then the forest is not afraid of any cold.

No, no matter how severe the frost, it will not kill our northern forest!

Our Prince Bova will stand against all storms and snowstorms.

A story about winter "Winter night".

Night has come in the forest.

Frost taps on the trunks and branches of thick trees, light silver hoarfrost falls in flakes. In the dark high sky, bright winter stars visibly scattered.

Quietly, silently in the winter forest and in the forest snowy glades.

But even on frosty winter nights, the hidden life in the forest continues. Here a frozen branch crunched and broke - it ran under the trees, gently bouncing, a white hare. Then something hooted and suddenly terribly laughed: somewhere an owl screamed. The wolves howled and fell silent.

On the diamond tablecloth of snow, leaving patterns of traces, light caresses run, ferrets hunt mice, owls silently fly over snowdrifts.

Aksakov S.T.

In 1813, from the very Nikolin day (Nikolin day - religious holiday, who met on December 6, according to Art. style) crackling December frosts were established, especially from the winter turns, when, according to popular expression, the sun went to summer, and winter to frost. The cold grew every day, and on December 29, the mercury froze and sank into a glass ball.

The bird froze on the fly and fell to the ground already stiff. The water thrown up from the glass returned in icy splashes and icicles, but there was very little snow, only an inch, and the bare ground froze three-quarters of an arshin.

Burying poles for the construction of the Riga barn, the peasants said that they would not remember when the ground would freeze so deeply, and hoped for a rich harvest of winter crops next year.

The air was dry, thin, burning, piercing, and many people fell ill from severe colds and inflammations; the sun rose and lay down with fiery ears, and the moon walked across the sky, accompanied by cruciform rays; the wind had fallen completely, and whole heaps of bread remained unwinned, so that there was nowhere to go with them.

With difficulty they pierced ice-holes in the pond with picks and axes; the ice was more than a arshin thick, and when they reached the water, it, compressed by a heavy, icy crust, beat like from a fountain, and then it only calmed down when it flooded the hole wide, so that to clean it it was necessary to pave the footbridges ...

... the view was magnificent winter nature. Frost squeezed moisture out of tree branches and trunks, and bushes and trees, even reeds and tall grasses, were covered with brilliant hoarfrost, along which the sun's rays harmlessly glided, showering them only with the cold brilliance of diamond fires.

Red, clear and quiet were the short winter days, like two drops of water one to the other, and somehow sadly, restlessly became in the soul, and the people became depressed.

Diseases, windlessness, lack of snow, and ahead of fodder for livestock. How not to get discouraged here? Everyone prayed for snow, as in summer for rain, and now, finally, pigtails went across the sky, the frost began to surrender, clarity faded blue sky, pulled West wind, and a plump cloud, imperceptibly advancing, clouded the horizon from all sides.

As if having done its job, the wind died down again, and the blessed snow began to fall directly, slowly, in large patches to the ground.

The peasants joyfully looked at the fluffy snowflakes fluttering in the air, which, at first fluttering and spinning, fell to the ground.

The snow began to fall from the village early dinner, it fell incessantly, thicker and stronger from hour to hour.

I have always loved to watch the silent fall or fall of snow. In order to fully enjoy this picture, I went out into the field, and a wonderful sight presented itself to my eyes: all the boundless space around me presented the appearance of a snowy stream, as if the heavens had opened up, scattered with snow down and filled the whole air with movement and amazing silence.

The long winter twilight was setting in; falling snow began to cover all objects and clothed the earth with white darkness ...

I returned home, but not to a stuffy room, but to the garden, and with pleasure walked along the paths, showered with snow flakes. Lights lit up in peasant huts, and pale rays lay across the street; objects mingled, drowned in the darkened air.

I entered the house, but even there I stood for a long time at the window, stood until it was no longer possible to distinguish the falling snowflakes ...

“What powder will be tomorrow! I thought. - If the snow stops falling by morning, where is the malik (Malik is a hare footprint in the snow) - there is the hare ... ”And hunting worries and dreams took possession of my imagination. I especially liked to follow the Rusaks, of whom there were many in the mountains and ravines, near the grain peasant humens.

In the evening I prepared all the hunting supplies and shells; several times he ran out to see if it was snowing, and, making sure that it was still falling, just as hard and quietly, just as evenly spreading the ground, went to bed with pleasant hopes.

The winter night is long, and especially in the village, where they go to bed early: you will lie on your sides, waiting for the white day. I always woke up two hours before dawn and loved to meet the winter dawn without a candle. That day I woke up even earlier and now went to find out what was going on in the yard.

There was complete silence outside. The air was soft, and despite the twelve-degree frost, I felt warm. Snow clouds rolled in, and only occasionally some belated snowflakes fell on my face.

In the village, life has long woken up; in all the huts lights shone and stoves were heated, and on the threshing floors, by the light of flaming straw, bread was threshed. The rumble of speeches and the sound of flails from nearby barns reached my ears.

I stared, listened, and did not soon return to my warm room. I sat down opposite the window to the east and waited for the light; for a long time it was impossible to notice any change. Finally, a peculiar whiteness appeared in the windows, the tiled stove turned white, and a bookcase with books, which until then could not be distinguished, appeared against the wall.

In another room, the door to which was open, the stove was already heating. Buzzing and crackling and slapping the shutter, it illuminated the door and half of the upper room with some kind of cheerful, joyful and hospitable light.

But the white day came into its own, and the lighting from the heating stove gradually disappeared. How good, how sweet it was to the soul! Calm, quiet and light! Some kind of vague, full of bliss, warm dreams filled the soul ...

An excerpt from the essay "Buran" 1856

Aksakov S.T.

A snowy white cloud, huge as the sky, covered the entire horizon, and the last light of the red, burnt evening dawn was quickly covered with a thick veil. Suddenly the night came ... the storm came with all its fury, with all its horrors. The desert wind blew up in the open, blew up the snowy steppes like swan fluff, threw them up to the sky ... Everything was dressed in white darkness, impenetrable, like the darkness of the darkest autumn night! Everything merged, everything mixed up: the earth, the air, the sky turned into an abyss of boiling snowy dust, which blinded the eyes, occupied the breath, roared, whistled, howled, moaned, beat, ruffled, twirled from all sides, from above and below, twisted around like a kite and strangled everything he came across.

The heart drops in the most intimidating person, the blood freezes, stops from fear, and not from cold, because the cold during snowstorms is significantly reduced. So terrible is the sight of the indignation of the winter northern nature. A person loses his memory, presence of mind, goes crazy ... and this is the reason for the death of many unfortunate victims.

For a long time our convoy dragged with its twenty-pound wagons. The road was drifting, the horses stumbled incessantly. Most of the people walked, stuck knee-deep in the snow; finally, everyone was exhausted; many horses have arrived. The old man saw this, and although his sternness, which was the most difficult of all, for he was the first to pave the trail, still cheerfully pulled out his legs, the old man stopped the convoy. “Friends,” he said, calling all the peasants to him, “there is nothing to do. We must surrender to the will of God; have to spend the night here. Let's make wagons and unharnessed horses together, in a circle. We will tie the shafts and raise them up, wrap them in felt mats, sit under them, as if under a hut, and we will begin to wait for the light of God and good people. Maybe we won’t all freeze!”

The advice was strange and terrible; but it contained the only means of salvation. Unfortunately, there were young, inexperienced people in the convoy. One of them, whose horse stuck less than the others, did not want to obey the old man. “Come on, grandpa! - he said. - Serko something you have become, so are we to die with you? you've already lived in the world, it's all the same to you; but we still want to live. Seven versts to the umet, there will be no more. Let's go guys! Let grandfather stay with those whose horses have completely become. Tomorrow, God willing, we'll be alive, we'll come back here and dig them up." In vain did the old man speak, in vain did he prove that he was weary less than the others; In vain did Petrovich and two more of the peasants support him: the six others on twelve carts set off further.

The storm raged from hour to hour. It raged all night and all the next day, so there was no ride. Deep ravines turned into high mounds... Finally, the excitement of the snowy ocean began to subside little by little, which continues even then, when the sky is already shining with a cloudless blue. Another night passed. The violent wind died down, the snows subsided. The steppes presented the appearance of a stormy sea, suddenly frozen over ... The sun rolled out into a clear sky; its rays played on the wavy snows. The wagon trains that had waited out the storm and all sorts of passers-by set off.

G. Skrebitsky “Four Artists. Winter"

Fields and hillocks turned white. thin ice the river was covered, subsided, fell asleep, as in a fairy tale.

Winter walks in the mountains, in the valleys, walks in large, soft felt boots, steps quietly, inaudibly. And she herself glances around - here and there she will correct her magical picture.

Here is a hillock in the middle of the field. The prankster wind took it and blew off his white hat. Need to wear it again. And over there, between the bushes, a gray hare is sneaking. It’s bad for him, gray: on white snow he will immediately notice him predatory beast or a bird, you can't hide from them anywhere.

"I'll put on a slanting white coat, - decided Winter, - then you won’t notice him in the snow soon.

And Lisa Patrikeevna has no need to dress in white. She lives in a deep hole, hiding from enemies underground. She just needs to be prettier and warmer to dress up.

A wonderful fur coat was in store for her by Winter, just a miracle: all bright red, like a fire burns! The fox will lead to the side with a fluffy tail, as if sparks will scatter on the snow.

Winter looked into the forest: “I’ll decorate it: the sun will look and admire it.”

She dressed the pines and ate in heavy snow coats: she pulled snow caps down to the very eyebrows; I put on downy mittens on the branches. The forest heroes stand next to each other, stand decorously, calmly.

And below them, like children, various bushes and young trees took refuge. Winter also dressed them in white fur coats.

And on the mountain ash that grows at the very edge, she threw a white veil. It worked out so well. Clusters of berries hang at the ends of the branches, as if red earrings are visible from under a white coverlet.

Under the trees, Winter painted all the snow with a pattern of different footprints and footprints. There is also a hare footprint: in front there are two large paw prints, and behind - one after the other - two small ones; and fox - as if bred by a thread: paw to paw, so it stretches like a chain ...

The winter forest lives. Snow-covered fields and valleys live. The whole picture of the sorceress of Winter lives on. You can show it to the Sun.

The sun parted a gray cloud. He looks at the winter forest, at the valleys. And under her gaze, everything around becomes even more beautiful.

The snow flared up. Blue, red, green lights lit up on the ground, in the bushes, in the trees. And a breeze blew, shook off the frost from the branches, and in the air, too, sparkled, multi-colored lights danced.

The picture turned out great! Perhaps you can't draw better.

K. Paustovsky "Warm bread"

(excerpt)

On one of these warm gray days, the wounded horse knocked with his muzzle on the gate to Filka's grandmother. Grandmother was not at home, and Filka was sitting at the table and chewing a piece of bread, heavily sprinkled with salt.

Filka reluctantly got up and went out the gate. The horse shifted from foot to foot and reached for the bread. "Yah you! Devil!" Filka shouted and hit the horse on the lips with a backhand. The horse staggered back, shook his head, and Filka threw the bread far into the loose snow and shouted:

“You won’t get enough of you, Christ-lovers!” There is your bread! Go dig it with your face from under the snow! Go dig!

And after this malicious shout, those amazing things happened in Berezhki, about which people still talk, shaking their heads, because they themselves do not know whether it was or nothing like that happened.

A tear rolled down from the horse's eyes. The horse neighed plaintively, drawlingly, waved his tail, and immediately howled in the bare trees, in the hedges and chimneys, a piercing wind whistled, snow blew up, powdered Filka's throat. Filka rushed back into the house, but could not find the porch in any way - it was already shoaling all around and whipping into his eyes. Frozen straw flew from the roofs in the wind, birdhouses broke, torn shutters slammed. And columns of snow dust rose higher and higher from the surrounding fields, rushing to the village, rustling, spinning, overtaking each other.

Filka finally jumped into the hut, locked the door, said: “Come on!” - and listened. The blizzard roared wildly, but through its roar Filka heard a thin and short whistle - this is how a horse's tail whistles when an angry horse hits its sides with it.

The blizzard began to subside in the evening, and only then was Grandmother Filkin able to get to her hut from her neighbor. And by nightfall, the sky turned green as ice, the stars froze to the vault of heaven, and a prickly frost passed through the village. No one saw him, but everyone heard the creak of his boots on the hard snow, heard how the frost, mischievous, squeezed thick logs in the walls and they cracked and burst.

The grandmother, crying, told Filka that the wells had probably already frozen over and now imminent death awaited them. There is no water, everyone has run out of flour, and now the mill will not be able to work, because the river has frozen to the very bottom.

Filka also wept with fear when the mice began to run out of the underground and bury themselves under the stove in the straw, where there was still a little warmth. "Yah you! Damned!" he shouted at the mice, but the mice kept climbing out of the underground. Filka climbed onto the stove, covered himself with a sheepskin coat, shook all over and listened to the grandmother's lamentations.

“A hundred years ago such a bitter frost fell on our district,” said the grandmother. “He froze wells, killed birds, dried forests and gardens to the roots. Ten years after that, neither trees nor grasses bloomed. The seeds in the ground withered and disappeared. Our land was naked. Every animal ran around her - he was afraid of the desert.

- Why did that frost come? Filka asked.

“From human malice,” answered the grandmother. - An old soldier was walking through our village, asked for bread in the hut, and the owner, an evil peasant, sleepy, noisy, take it and give me only a stale crust. And he didn’t give it to his hands, but threw it on the floor and said: “Here you are! Chew!" “It’s impossible for me to lift bread from the floor,” the soldier says. “I have a piece of wood instead of a leg.” “Where did you put your leg?” the man asks. “I lost my leg in the Balkan mountains in the Turkish battle,” the soldier replies. "Nothing. If you're really hungry, you'll get up,' the peasant laughed. “There are no valets for you here.” The soldier groaned, contrived, lifted the crust and saw - this is not bread, but one green mold. One poison! Then the soldier went out into the yard, whistled - and at once a blizzard broke out, a blizzard, the storm swirled the village, the roofs were torn off, and then a severe frost struck. And the man died.

- Why did he die? Filka asked hoarsely.

“From the cooling of the heart,” the grandmother answered, paused and added: “To know, and now a bad person, an offender, has wound up in Berezhki, and has done an evil deed. That's why it's cold.

"What are you going to do now, grandma?" Filka asked from under his sheepskin coat. - Is it really to die?

Why die? Need to hope.

- For what?

- That the bad man will correct his villainy.

- How to fix it? asked Filka, sobbing.

“But Pankrat knows about it, miller. He is a smart old man, a scientist. You need to ask him. Can you really run to the mill in such a cold? The bleeding will stop immediately.

- Come on, Pankrat! Filka said and fell silent.

At night he climbed down from the stove. Grandma was sleeping on the bench. Outside the windows, the air was blue, thick, terrible.

In the clear sky above the osokors stood the moon, adorned like a bride with pink crowns.

Filka wrapped his sheepskin coat around him, jumped out into the street and ran to the mill. The snow sang underfoot, as if an artel of merry sawyers sawed at the root birch grove over the river. It seemed that the air was frozen and between the earth and the moon there was only one void - burning and so clear that if it lifted a speck of dust a kilometer from the earth, then it would be visible and it would glow and twinkle like a small star.

The black willows near the mill dam turned gray from the cold. Their branches gleamed like glass. The air pricked Filka's chest. He could no longer run, but walked heavily, raking the snow with his felt boots.

Filka knocked on the window of Pankrat's hut. Immediately in the barn behind the hut, a wounded horse neighed and beat with a hoof. Filka groaned, squatted down in fear, hid. Pankrat opened the door, grabbed Filka by the collar and dragged him into the hut.

Sit down by the stove, he said. Tell me before you freeze.

Filka, crying, told Pankrat how he offended the wounded horse and how frost fell on the Village because of this.

- Yes, - Pankrat sighed, - your business is bad! It turns out that everyone is lost because of you. Why hurt the horse? For what? You stupid citizen!

Filka sniffled and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

- Stop crying! Pankrat said sternly. - You are all masters of roaring. A little naughty - now in a roar. But I just don't see the point in that. My mill stands as if sealed with frost forever, but there is no flour, and no water, and we don’t know what to come up with.

- What should I do now, grandfather Pankrat? Filka asked.

— Invent salvation from the cold. Then the people will not be your fault. And in front of a wounded horse, too. You will be a pure person, cheerful. Everyone will pat you on the back and forgive you. Clear?

V. Bianchi "Snow Book"

They wandered, inherited the animals in the snow. You won't immediately understand what happened.

To the left, under a bush, a hare trail begins -

From the hind legs, the track is elongated, long; from the front - round, small. A hare trail across the field. On one side of it is another track, a larger one; in the snow from the claws of the hole - a fox trace. And on the other side of the hare's footprint there is another footprint: also fox, only leading back.

The hare gave a circle around the field; fox too. Hare aside - fox behind him. Both tracks end in the middle of the field.

But aside - again a hare trail. It disappears, it goes on...

It goes, goes, goes - and suddenly it broke off - as if it had gone underground! And where it disappeared, the snow was crushed there and on the sides, as if someone had smeared their fingers.

Where did the fox go?

Where did the rabbit go?

Let's take a look at warehouses.

Worth a bush. The bark has been stripped from it. Trampled under a bush, traced. Hare tracks. Here the hare was fattening: it gnawed the bark from the bush. It will stand on its hind legs, tear off a piece with its teeth, chew it, step over with its paws, and tear off another piece next to it. I ate and wanted to sleep. I went looking for a place to hide.

And here is a fox footprint, next to a hare footprint. It was like this: the hare went to sleep. An hour passes, another. The fox is walking through the field. Look, a hare footprint in the snow! Fox n ° s to the ground. I sniffed - the trail is fresh!

She ran after the trail.

The fox is cunning, and the hare is not simple: he knew how to confuse his trail. He galloped, galloped across the field, turned around, circled a large loop, crossed his own trail - and to the side.

The trail is still even, unhurried: the hare walked calmly, he did not smell trouble behind him.

The fox ran, ran - he sees: there is a fresh track across the track. I didn’t realize that the hare made a loop.

Turned sideways - on a fresh trail; runs, runs - and became: the trail broke off! Where to now?

And the matter is simple: this is a new hare trick - a deuce.

The hare made a loop, crossed its trail, walked a little forward, and then turned around - and back along its trail.

He walked carefully, paw to paw.

The fox stood, stood - and back.

She came to the crossroads again.

Followed the whole loop.

She walks, walks, sees - the hare deceived her, the trail does not lead anywhere!

She snorted and went into the woods to do her business.

And it was like this: the hare made a deuce - went back along its trail.

He did not reach the loop - and waved through the snowdrift - to the side.

He jumped over a bush and lay down under a pile of brushwood.

Here he lay while the fox searched for him on the trail.

And when the fox is gone, how he will burst out from under the brushwood - and into the thicket!

Wide jumps - paws to paws: a ton trail.

Rushing without looking back. Stump on the road. Hare past. And on the stump ... And on the stump sat a big owl.

I saw a hare, took off, and so it lays behind it. Caught and tsap in the back with all the claws!

The hare poked into the snow, and the owl settled down, beats its wings in the snow, tears it off the ground.

Where the hare fell, there the snow was crushed. Where the eagle owl flapped its wings, there are signs in the snow from feathers, as if from fingers.

N. Sladkov "Bureau of Forest Services"

Cold February has come to the forest. He piled snowdrifts on the bushes, covered the trees with frost. And the sun, although it shines, does not warm.

Ferret says:

- Save yourself as much as you can!

And Magpie chirps:

"Every man for himself again?" Alone again? No to us together against a common misfortune! And so everyone says about us that we only peck and squabble in the forest. It's even embarrassing...

Here the Hare got involved:

- That's right Magpie chirps. There is safety in numbers. I propose to create a Bureau forest services. I, for example, can help partridges. Every day I break the snow on winter trees to the ground, let them peck seeds and greens after me - I don’t feel sorry. Write me, Soroka, to the Bureau at number one!

- There is a smart head in our forest! Magpie rejoiced. - Who is next?

- We're next! cried the crossbills. - We peel the cones on the trees, drop half the cones whole down. Use it, voles and mice, it's not a pity!

“A hare is a digger, crossbills are throwers,” Magpie wrote.

- Who is next?

“Write us down,” grumbled the beavers from their hut. - We piled so many aspens in the fall - enough for everyone. Come to us, moose, roe deer, hares, juicy aspen bark and branches to gnaw!

And it's gone, and it's gone!

Woodpeckers offer their hollows for the night, crows invite to carrion, crows promise to show the landfill. Magpie barely manages to write down.

The wolf also choked on the noise. He twirled his ears, looked up with his eyes and said:

Sign me up for the Bureau!

Magpie almost fell from the tree:

- You, Volka, in the Bureau of Services? What do you want to do in it?

“I will serve as a watchman,” Wolf replies.

Who can you guard?

I can take care of everyone! Hares, moose and roe deer near aspens, partridges on greenery, beavers in huts. I am an experienced caretaker. Sheep guarded in the sheepfold, chickens in the chicken coop ...

- You are a robber from the forest road, not a watchman! Magpie screamed. - Pass, rogue, by! We know you. It’s me, Magpie, I’ll guard everyone in the forest from you: as soon as I see it, I’ll raise a cry! I’ll write down not you, but myself as a watchman in the Bureau: “Magpie is a watchman.” What am I, worse than others, or what?

So the bird-animals live in the forest. It happens, of course, that they live in such a way that only fluff and feathers fly. But sometimes they help each other out.

Anything can happen in the forest.

N. Sladkov "Everything has its time"

Tired of winter. That would be summer now!

“Hey, Waxwing, would you be happy about summer?”

“You ask more,” the waxwing replies. - I'm surviving from mountain ash to viburnum, sore on my tongue!

And Soroka is already asking Kosacha. Kosach also complains:

- I sleep in the snow, for lunch there is only birch porridge! Eyebrows are red - froze!

Magpie knocks on the Bear: how, they say, do you winter the winter?

- So-so! Misha grumbles. - From side to side. I lie on my right side - raspberries seem to me, on my left - linden honey.

- Clear! - Magpie chirps. Everyone is sick of winter! So that you, winter, failed!

And the winter is over...

We didn’t have time to gasp - summer is around! Warmth, flowers, leaves. Have fun, forest people!

And the people of the forest spun ...

- I'm confused about something, Magpie! - The whistler says. What position have you put me in? I rushed to you from the north along the mountain ash, and you have only leaves. On the other hand, I should be in the north in the summer, and I'm stuck here! Head spin. And there is nothing...

- She did Forty things! Kosach hisses angrily. — What nonsense? Where did the spring go? In the spring I sing songs and dance. The most fun time! And in the summer only shedding, losing feathers. What nonsense?

- So you yourself dreamed of summer ?! cried Magpie.

— You never know! The bear is talking. - We dreamed of summer with lime honey and raspberries. And where are they if you jumped over the spring? Neither raspberries nor lindens had time to bloom - therefore, there will be no raspberries or linden honey! Turn your tail, I'll pluck it for you now!

Oh, how angry Magpie! She swerved, jumped, flew up to the Christmas tree and shouted:

— Fail you together with the summer! - And the unexpected summer failed. And winter is in the forest again. Again the waxwing pecks the mountain ash. Kosach sleeps in the snow. And the Bear is in the den. They all growl a little. But they endure. Waiting for the real spring.

E. Nosov "Thirty grains"

At night, snow fell on the wet trees, bent the branches with its loose damp weight, and then it was seized by frost, and the snow now held on to the branches tightly, like candied cotton.

A titmouse flew in, tried to pick open the frost. But the snow was hard, and she looked around anxiously, as if asking: “What should I do now?”

I opened the window, put a ruler on both crossbars of the double frames, fastened it with buttons and placed hemp seeds through every centimeter. The first seed was in the garden, seed number thirty was in my room.

Titmouse saw everything, but for a long time did not dare to fly to the window. Finally, she grabbed the first linnet and carried it to the branch. She pecked at the hard shell and plucked out the core.

Everything went well. Then the titmouse seized the moment and picked up seed number two...

I sat at the table, worked and from time to time looked at the titmouse. And she, still shy and anxiously looking into the depths of the window, centimeter by centimeter approached along the ruler, on which her fate was measured.

— May I peck one more grain? One and only?

And the titmouse, frightened by the noise of its own wings, flew away with the linnet to the tree.

- Well, please, one more. Okay?

Finally, the last grain remained. It was at the very tip of the line. The seed seemed so far away, and it was so scary to follow it!

Titmouse, crouching and alerting her wings, crept to the very end of the line and ended up in my room. With fearful curiosity she peered into the unknown world. She was especially struck by the fresh green flowers and completely summer warmth, which fanned the chilled paws.

- Do you live here?

Why isn't there snow here?

Instead of answering, I turned the switch. A light bulb blazed brightly from the ceiling.

Where did you get a piece of the sun? And what's that?

- It? Books.

- What are books?

“They taught me how to light this sun, how to plant these flowers and those trees you jump on, and much more. And they also taught you how to pour hemp seeds for you.

- It is very good. And you're not scary at all. Who are you?

- I am human.

— What is a Man?

It was very difficult to explain this to the stupid little titmouse.

- See the thread? She is tied to the window ...

The titmouse looked around frightened.

- Don't be afraid. I won't do it. This is what we call Man.

“Can I eat this last grain?”

- Oh sure! I want you to fly to me every day. You will visit me and I will work. It helps the Human to work well. Agree?

- Agree. What is work?

You see, this is such a duty of every person. You can't do without it. All people must do something. This is how they help each other.

- How do you help people?

— I want to write a book. Such a book that everyone who reads it would put thirty hemp seeds on his window ...

But the titmouse doesn't seem to listen to me at all. Grasping the seed with her paws, she slowly pecks it at the tip of the ruler.

Y. Koval "Snow Rain"

I looked out the window to find out what the weather was like, and I didn’t understand what was there on the street - snow or rain?

The air was cloudy, gray, and something incomprehensible flew from the sky to the ground.

were visible and rain drops and sluggish snowflakes.

- Snowfall. Again snow.

How long, how painfully the winter got up this year. Snow will fall - and immediately it will be fun. You get a sled - and go up the hill, ride. In the meantime, you are sledding down the mountain, the snow has already melted, you plow the ground with your nose.

— What are the times? What are the winters? Orekhyevna sighed. There will never be a real winter now.

"I'm tired of the snow," I said. - We need snow.

Somehow at the end of December, at night, I went out into the street. All the winter stars and constellations were in front of me. And the heavenly hunter Orion, and the Dogs - Big and Small - and the Charioteer, and Gemini.

- What is being done? I turned to Orion. - Snowfall.

And then Orion shook his shoulder, and from his shoulder a star flew to the ground, followed by another, a third. The real December meteor shower has begun.

The stars soon died down, died out, and from somewhere in the black depths of the night snowflakes appeared. Starfall turned into snowfall.

The snow came down like a shaft, and the whole village - houses and sheds - suddenly turned into a fabulous city.

And it immediately became clear to me that this snow had finally and permanently fallen and would lie as long as Orion was visible in the sky. That means until spring.

Y. Koval "Bullfinches and cats"

Late autumn, with the first powder came to us from northern forests bullfinches.

Plump and ruddy, they sat on the apple trees, as if instead of fallen apples.

And our cats are already here. They also climbed the apple trees and settled on the lower branches. Say, sit down with us, bullfinches, we are also like apples.

Bullfinches have not seen cats for a whole year, but they are thinking. After all, cats have a tail, and apples have a tail.

How good bullfinches are, and especially snow maidens. Their breasts are not as fiery as those of the bullfinch owner, but tender - pale yellow.

Bullfinches fly away, snowmaidens fly away.

And the cats stay on the apple tree.

They lie on the branches and wag their apple-like tails.

S. Kozlov "We will come and breathe"

There has been no sun for several days now. The forest was empty and quiet. Even the crows did not fly, that was the empty forest.

- Well, that's it, get ready for winter, - said the Bear cub.

- Where are the birds? - asked the Hedgehog.

- Getting ready. Warm up nests.

- Where is Bella?

- He lays out the hollow with dry moss.

- And the Hare?

— Sitting in a hole, breathing. Wants to breathe for the whole winter.

“That’s stupid,” smiled the Hedgehog.

- I told him: you won’t breathe before winter.

“I’ll breathe,” he says. I will breathe and breathe.

- Go to him, maybe we can help.

And they went to the Hare.

The hare hole was on the third side of the mountain. On the one hand - the house of the Hedgehog, on the other - the house of the Bear cub, and on the third - the hole of the Hare.

“Here,” said Little Bear. - Here. Hey Bunny! he shouted.

“Ah,” came a dull voice from the hole.

- What are you doing there? - asked the Hedgehog.

- Did you breathe a lot?

- Not yet. Half.

- Do you want us to breathe from above? asked Little Bear.

“It won’t work,” came from the hole. - I have a door.

“And you make a crack,” said the Hedgehog.

- Open a little, and we will breathe, - said the Bear.

- Boo-boo-boo, - came from the hole.

“Now,” said the Hare. - Well, breathe! The Hedgehog and the Bear cub lay down head to head and began to breathe.

- Ha! .. Ha! .. - the Hedgehog breathed.

“Ha-ah! .. Ha-ah! ..” the Little Bear breathed.

- Well, how? shouted the Hedgehog.

"It's getting warmer," said the Hare. - Breathe.

- And now? - after a minute asked the Bear cub.

“There is nothing to breathe,” said the Hare.

- Come join us! shouted the Hedgehog.

- Close the door and get out!

The hare slammed the door and climbed out.

- Well, how?

“Like in a bathhouse,” said the Hare.

“You see, the three of us are better,” said Little Bear.

“Now we will come to you all winter and breathe,” said the Hedgehog.

- And if you freeze, come to me, - said the Bear cub.

“Or to me,” said the Hedgehog.

“Thank you,” said the Hare. - I'll definitely come. Just don't come to me, okay?

- But why?..

“Traces,” said the Hare. - Stomp, and then someone will definitely eat me.

Winter time in verses is graceful and complacent to the sleeping nature. Poems about winter in the works of Russian poets delight in the severity of the Russian winter, convey the comfort of the folk life of the Russian hut and the life of a peasant in a long frosty time. The poems tell about fairy tales created by the very charm of winter nature.

Poems of Russian poets about winter: charming lines!

Winter in the verses of Russian poets is thoughtful and beckons with splendor, as if the queen of the winter kingdom herself and the mistress of snowstorms and blizzards, fetters and beckons with her beauty and majesty. Nature hid and sleeps, hiding under a snow-white veil, while winter released the forces of winds and frosts that chained the whole natural world into icy chains, like lines of winter poems, bewitched by the beauty and charm of Russian poetry.

Poems about winter are created most often under the impression of nature, frozen in immobility, but not losing its charm. The first snow always causes a storm of emotions, so long-awaited, so clean and snow-white against the background of autumn slush. “Pushkin’s Tatyana” loved this period, admired the white birch and pitied the freezing birds Yesenin, sang the Tyutchev forest bewitched by the cold. Each poet finds something of his own in this time, and therefore poems about winter by different authors often differ in content and emotional content, but remain as charmingly beautiful as frosty patterns on glass.

Pushkin's poems about winter

Winter morning
Frost and sun; wonderful day!
You are still dozing, lovely friend -
It's time, beauty, wake up:
Open eyes closed by bliss
Towards the northern Aurora,
Be the star of the north!
Evening, do you remember, the blizzard was angry,
In the cloudy sky, a haze hovered;
The moon is like a pale spot
Turned yellow through the gloomy clouds,
And you sat sad -
And now ... look out the window:
Under blue skies
splendid carpets,
Shining in the sun, the snow lies;
The transparent forest alone turns black,
And the spruce turns green through the frost,
And the river under the ice glitters.
The whole room amber gleam
Enlightened. Cheerful crackling
The fired oven crackles.
It's nice to think by the couch.
But you know: do not order to the sled
Harness a brown filly?
Gliding through the morning snow
Dear friend, let's run
impatient horse
And visit the empty fields
The forests, recently so dense,
And the shore, dear to me.

***

Winter evening
A storm covers the sky with mist,
Whirlwinds of snow twisting;
Like a beast, she will howl
It will cry like a child
That on a dilapidated roof
Suddenly the straw will rustle,
Like a belated traveler
There will be a knock on our window.
Our ramshackle shack
And sad and dark.
What are you, my old lady,
Silent at the window?
Or howling storms
You, my friend, are tired
Or slumber under the buzz
Your spindle?
Let's drink, good friend
My poor youth
Let's drink from grief; where is the mug?
The heart will be happy.
Sing me a song like a titmouse
She lived quietly across the sea;
Sing me a song like a damsel
She followed the water in the morning.
A storm covers the sky with mist,
Whirlwinds of snow twisting;
Like a beast, she will howl
It will cry like a child.
Let's drink, good friend
My poor youth
Let's drink from grief: where is the mug?
The heart will be happy.

Winter road
Through the wavy mists
The moon is creeping
To sad glades
She pours a sad light.
On the winter road, boring
Troika greyhound runs
Single bell
Tiring noise.
Something is heard native
In the coachman's long songs:
That revelry is remote,
That heartache...
No fire, no black hut...
Wilderness and snow... Meet me
Only miles striped
Come across alone.
Boring, sad ... Tomorrow, Nina,
Tomorrow, returning to my dear,
I'll forget by the fireplace
I look without looking.
Sounding hour hand
He will make his measured circle,
And, removing the boring ones,
Midnight won't separate us.
It's sad, Nina: my path is boring,
Dremlya fell silent my coachman,
The bell is monotonous
Foggy moon face.

***

What a night! Frost crackling,
Not a single cloud in the sky;
Like a sewn canopy, a blue vault
It is full of frequent stars.
Everything is dark in the houses. At the gate
Locks with heavy locks.
Everywhere people rest;
The noise and the shout of the merchant subsided;
Only the yard guard barks
Yes, the ringing chain rattles.
And all of Moscow sleeps peacefully...
***

That year the autumn weather
She stood outside for a long time.
Winter was waiting, nature was waiting,
Snow fell only in January,
On the third night. Waking up early
Tatyana saw in the window
Whitewashed yard in the morning,
Curtains, roofs and fences,
Light patterns on glass
Trees in winter silver
Forty merry in the yard
And softly padded mountains
Winters are a brilliant carpet.
Everything is bright, everything shines around.
***

Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant,
On firewood, updates the path;
His horse, smelling snow,
Trotting somehow;
Reins fluffy exploding,
A remote wagon flies;
The coachman sits on the irradiation
In a sheepskin coat, in a red sash.
Here is a yard boy running,
Planting a bug in a sled,
Transforming himself into a horse;
The scoundrel already froze his finger:
It hurts and it's funny
And his mother threatens him through the window.

Winter pictures are so beautiful, so touching the soul that it is hard not to notice them. And the birds are not visible at all: only black jackdaws sometimes jump along the road near the village. Animals and birds that do not fly away from us to distant lands hide at this time in the forest.

BIRCH
Sergey Yesenin
White birch under my window
Covered with snow, like silver.
On fluffy branches with a snowy border
Tassels of white fringe blossomed.
And there is a birch in sleepy silence,
And snowflakes burn in golden fire.
And the dawn, lazily going around,
Sprinkle the branches with new silver.

Winter evening

Mikhail Isakovsky

Behind the window in the white field -
Twilight, wind, snow…
You are probably sitting at school,
In his bright room.
Winter evening is short,
Leaned over the table
Do you write, do you read?
Whether you think about what.
The day is over - and the classrooms are empty,
Silence in the old house
And you're a little sad
That you are alone today.
Because of the wind, because of the blizzard
Empty all the ways
Friends won't come to you
Spend the evening together.
The blizzard swept up the track, -
It's not easy to get through.
But the fire in your window
Seen very far.

***

winter meeting
Ivan Nikitin

Rain yesterday morning
He knocked on the glass of the windows,
Fog over the ground
I got up with clouds.

Blowed cold in the face
From gloomy skies
And God knows what
The dark forest was crying.

At noon the rain stopped
And that white fluff
On the autumn mud
The snow began to fall.

The night has passed. It's dawn.
There are no clouds anywhere.
The air is light and clean
And the river froze.

In yards and houses
Snow lies in sheets
And shines from the sun
Multicolored fire.

Into the empty space
whitened fields
Looks fun forest
From under black curls.

As if he is happy about something, -
And on the branches of birches
How diamonds burn
Drops of restrained tears.

Hello winter guest!
Please have mercy on us
Sing the songs of the north
Through forests and steppes.

We have a space -
Walk anywhere;
Build bridges across rivers
And lay out the carpets.

We can't get used to
Let your frost crackle:
Our Russian blood
Burning in the cold!

It's like that
Orthodox people:
In the summer, look, the heat -
In a short fur coat goes;

Burning cold smelled -
All the same for him:
Knee-deep in the snow
Says: "Nothing!"

In an open field a blizzard
And - revels, and stirs up, -
Our steppe man
Rides in a sled, groans:

“Well, falcons, well!
Get it out, friends!"
He sits and sings
“Snowballs are not white!”

And do we sometimes
Death is not to be jokingly met,
If we have storms
Does the child get used to it?

When the mother is in the cradle
He puts his son at night,
Under the window for him
The blizzard sings songs.

And rampant bad weather
FROM early years he loves
And the hero grows
What is oak under the storms.

Scatter, winter
Until spring golden
Silver by fields
Our Rus' is holy!

And will it happen to us
An uninvited guest will come
And for our good
Will start a dispute with us -

You already accept it
On the side of someone else
Prepare an intoxicating feast
Sing a song to the guest;

For his bed
Save white fluff
And fall asleep with a blizzard
His trace in Rus'!

Freezing day
Valentin Berestov
Frosty day... But overhead
In the interweaving of branches, in the black mesh,
Flowing down the trunks, down each branch
The blue sky hangs like an avalanche.

And I believe that spring is about to begin.
And weirdly enough, she's already arrived.
And not a single twig will sway
So that the sky does not accidentally collapse.

The creak of footsteps along the white streets...
Athanasius Fet

The creak of footsteps along the white streets, the lights in the distance;
Crystals gleam on the icy walls.
Silver fluff hung from the eyelashes in the eyes,
The silence of the cold night occupies the spirit.
The wind sleeps, and everything goes numb, just to fall asleep;
The clear air itself is shy to die in the cold.

Winter... Impeccable pictures of the winter field. At sunset, it shimmers with pink light, then orange, and finally fawn. The sun sets early, and where it sets, the sky burns with a pale golden light. Then, when it hides, the field turns blue, and this blue slowly darkens. In the sky, one after another, the stars light up.

Enchantress Winter…
Fedor Tyutchev
Enchantress Winter
Bewitched, the forest stands,
And under the snowy fringe,
Motionless, dumb
He shines with a wonderful life.
And he stands, bewitched,
Not dead and not alive
Magically enchanted by sleep
All entangled, all bound
Light downy chain…
Is the winter sun mosque
On him his ray oblique -
Nothing trembles in it
He will flare up and shine
Dazzling beauty.

Winter again
Alexander Tvardovsky
Spinning lightly and clumsily,
The snowflake sat on the glass.
It was snowing thick and white at night -
The room is light from the snow.
A little powdery fluff flying,
And the winter sun rises.
Like every day, fuller and better,
A fuller and better new year...
winter pictures
Aunt walks the puppy.
The puppy is off the leash.
And here at low level flight
Crows fly for a puppy.
Sparkling snow...
What a small thing!
Sadness, where did you go?

snowball
Nikolai Nekrasov
Snow flutters, spins,
It's white outside.
And the puddles turned
In cold glass
Where the finches sang in summer
Today - look! —
Like pink apples
On the branches of snowmen.
The snow is cut by skis,
Like chalk, creaky and dry,
And the red cat catches
Cheerful white flies

motherland
Ivan Bunin
Under a leaden sky
Gloomy winter day fades,
And there is no end to the pine forests,
And far from the villages.
One mist is milky blue,
Like someone's mild sorrow,
Above this snowy desert
Softens the gloomy distance.

Winter... Among the undulating white surface, black spots stand out sharply in a few places: these are dark cliffs, too steep for snow to linger on them. And so the fallen snow levels everything: both depressions and hills. Streams and waterfalls are shackled by cold, lakes disappear under the snow, abysses are filled up, forests are half hidden by snow.

Hello winter winter!
Georgy Ladonshchikov
Hello winter winter!
Covered us with white snow
And trees and houses.
The light-winged wind whistles -
Hello winter winter!
An intricate trace winds
From meadow to hill.
This is a hare printed -
Hello winter winter!
We put bird feeders
We fill them with food,
And pichugs sing in flocks -
Hello winter winter!

January

Joseph Brodsky
Sheep doze, sows sleep,
huts doze, gardens sleep.
In the sky - crow's crosses,
There are hare tracks in the field.
Rivers are chained, lakes
cast in silver.
Opens up to view
woodlands above the mound.
There the ground is roaring,
There for meat food
wolves roam and roam.
And in a den under a pine
the bear sleeps and licks its paw.
A terrible howl of the wind is heard.
Children skiing
over his head.

Winter
(excerpt)

FROM. Surikov
White snow, fluffy
Spinning in the air
And the earth is quiet
Falling, laying down.

And in the morning with snow
The field is white
Like a veil
All dressed him up.

Dark forest with a hat
Covered up wonderful
And fell asleep under her
Strong, unshakable...

God's days are short
The sun shines a little
Here come the frosts -
And winter has come...

Blizzard

Ivan Bunin
At night in the fields, to the tunes of a snowstorm,
Dozing, swaying, birch and spruce ...
The moon shines between the clouds over the field -
A pale shadow runs and melts...
It seems to me at night: between white birches
Frost wanders in the misty radiance.

At night in a hut, to the tunes of a snowstorm,
The creak of the cradle quietly spreads ...
Months of light in the darkness are silvering -
It flows through the frozen glass on the benches.
It seems to me at night: between the boughs of birches
Frost looks into the silent huts.

Dead field, steppe road!
Blizzard sweeps you at night,
Your villages are sleeping to the songs of the blizzard,
Lonely fir trees slumber in the snow...
It seems to me at night: do not steppe around -
Frost wanders on a deaf graveyard ...

A. Fet

Just yesterday, in the sun,
The last forest trembled with a leaf,
And winter, lush green,
She lay on a velvet carpet.

Looking haughtily, as it used to be,
On the victims of cold and sleep,
Didn't change anything
Invincible pine.

Summer suddenly disappeared today;
White, lifeless circle,
Earth and sky - all dressed up
Some dull silver.

Fields without herds, forests are dull,
No meager leaves, no grass.
I don't recognize the growing power
In the diamond ghosts of the foliage.

As if in a gray puff of smoke
From the kingdom of cereals by the will of the fairies
Moved incomprehensibly
We are in the kingdom of rock crystals.

Jack Frost
(excerpt)

N. Nekrasov
It is not the wind that rages over the forest,
Streams did not run from the mountains,
Frost-voivode patrol
Bypasses his possessions,

Looks - good blizzards
Forest paths brought
And are there any cracks, cracks,
Is there any bare ground anywhere?

Are the tops of the pines fluffy,
Is the pattern on oak trees beautiful?
And are the ice floes tightly bound
In great and small waters?

Walks - walks through the trees,
Cracking on frozen water
And the bright sun plays
In his shaggy beard...
Climbing onto a large pine tree,
Hits the branches with a club
And I delete myself,
Boastful song sings:
"Snowstorms, snows and fogs
Always submissive to frost
I'll go to the seas-oceans -
I will build palaces of ice.
Conceived - the rivers are big
For a long time I will hide under oppression,
I will build bridges of ice
Which the people will not build.
Where fast, noisy waters
Recently flowed freely -
Pedestrians passed today
Convoys with goods passed ...
Rich man, I don’t count the treasury
And everything does not lack goodness;
I'm taking away my kingdom
In diamonds, pearls, silver ... "

Winter... When it becomes completely dark, the sky seems black, dotted like golden sparks, and the earth - dark blue. If the moon rises, the field is as if covered with a veil of bluish silver.

Winter night
Boris Pasternak
Melo, melo all over the earth
To all limits.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
Like a swarm of midges in summer
Flying into the flame
Flakes flew from the yard
to the window frame.
Snowstorm sculpted on glass
Circles and arrows.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
On the illuminated ceiling
The shadows lay
Crossed arms, crossed legs,
Crossing fates.
And two shoes fell
With a knock on the floor.
And wax with tears from the night light
Drip on the dress.
And everything was lost in the snow haze
Gray and white.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
The candle blew from the corner,
And the heat of temptation
Raised like an angel two wings
Crosswise.
Melo all month in February,
And every now and then
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.

One can only be surprised at the variety of poetic images in the poems of Russian poets about winter. At this time, two colors remain in nature - black and white, but the imagery of the poetic word fills each work with such a variety of tones and halftones that blue glare in the snow, and sunsets in a pink haze, and gold of a sunbeam in the air ringing from frost are born.

A fairy tale is born best time for which - long winter evenings ...

Poems about winter are distinguished by the clarity of the images; as a rule, a rhythmic pattern is clearly visible in them, there are no superfluous layers. They are similar to this season itself, so simple, but for all its coldness, so attractive and expected.