Jackson

In the summer, reading winter poetry is a special thing to enjoy. You can really yearn for the ice cold breezes and crackling snow, whereas during the season itself, it's hard to appreciate. American poet and later activist for the Native Americans, Helen Hunt Jackson [1830-1885] has a great poem on the month of 'January' in this vein [read more here]:

O WINTER! frozen pulse and heart of fire,

What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn

Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn

Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire

The streams than under ice. June could not hire

Her roses to forego the strength they learn

In sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burn

The bridges thou dost lay where men desire

In vain to build.

                          O Heart, when Love's sun goes

To northward, and the sounds of singing cease,

Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace.

Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose.

Walk boldly on the white untrodden snows,

The winter is the winter's own release.