Spring

Many of us get happy with it and look forward to this beautiful season. It is in the spring when nature awakens, and a spirit of magic flies in the air. Birds sing, streams ripple, and the sun appears much more often. Springtime signs are loved to be described by poets. Soak in this miraculous moment even more deeply.

«A Light Exists In Spring» by Emily Dickinson

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament

***

«A Prayer in Spring» by Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

***

«Acorn» by Darren C. Mossman

The spring was a ghost, as winter wither’d away.
The bird’s song was vapid, the flowers awaited May.
Alone we all sat, windows locked and shutter’d,
afraid of our neighbours, our bread went unbutter’d.

All shopkeepers were closed, all kegs were untapped,
all music did cease, all performance unclapped.
Alone we all sat, doors closed and locked.
Our pantry’s slowly dwindling, inadequately stocked.

All games were ended, all our works were halted.
All prayers were whispered, all hopes were exalted.
Alone we all sat, as the world slowly warmed,
the trees unpruned, ragged and deformed.

The gardens untilled, the boats tied to dock.
The productive were idle, the busy as rock.
Alone we all sat, avoiding the ravage
of an invisible foe, so vile and savage.

The streets were all empty, the pews were all bare.
The neighbours were treated only with what we could spare.
Alone we all sat, fearful and forlorn,
Locked in our homes, to weather this storm.

As the sun warms the airs, and the rains wet its feet,
The Oak reaches upwards as if heaven to meet.
Alone we all sat, uncertain and torn,
Our Solace unveiled by its wee acorn.

***

«After the Winter» by Claude McKay

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 cottage there

     Beside an open glade,

With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,

     And ferns that never fade.

***

«April» by Ella Higginson

Ah, who is this with twinkling feet,
With glad, young eyes and laughter sweet,
     Who tosses back her strong, wild hair,
     And saucy kisses flings to Care,
     The while she laughs at her? Beware—
You who this winsome maiden meet!

She dances on a daisied throne,
About her waist a slender zone
     Of dandelion’s gold; her eyes
     Are softer than the summer skies,
     And blue as violets; and lies
A tearful laughter in her tone.

She reaches dimpled arms and bare;
Her breath is sweet as wild-rose air;
     She sighs, she smiles, she glances down,
     Her brows meet in a sudden frown;
     She laughs; then tears the violets drown—
If you should meet her—ah, beware!

***

«Charming Spring» by Patricia L. Cisco

Reminiscent melodies
serenade the morning breeze.

Feathered creatures nest with care
in cherry blossoms pink and fair.

Perfumed scent of roses flow.
Tiny blades of green grass grow.

Misty showers soak the earth,
glorious colors come to birth.

Gathering clouds come and go,
rain, sun, and vibrant bow.

Dainty petals, fancy flair,
dancing in the warm, sweet air.

Violets, yellows, purest white,
graceful, gentle, welcomed sight.

Thank you, oh sweet lovely Spring,
patiently waiting the charms you bring!

***

«Daisy Time» by Marjorie Pickthall

See, the grass is full of stars,

Fallen in their brightness;

Hearts they have of shining gold,

Rays of shining whiteness.

Buttercups have honeyed hearts,

Bees they love the clover,

But I love the daisies’ dance

All the meadow over.

Blow, O blow, you happy winds,

Singing summer’s praises,

Up the field and down the field

A-dancing with the daisies.

***

«Fides, Spes» by Willa Cather

Joy is come to the little
          Everywhere;
Pink to the peach and pink to the apple,
          White to the pear.
Stars are come to the dogwood,
          Astral, pale;
Mists are pink on the red-bud,
          Veil after veil.
Flutes for the feathery locusts,
          Soft as spray;
Tongues of the lovers for chestnuts, poplars,
          Babbling May.
Yellow plumes for the willows’
          Wind-blown hair;
Oak trees and sycamores only
          Comfortless bare.
Sore from steel and the watching,
          Somber and old,—
Wooing robes for the beeches, larches,
          Splashed with gold;
Breath o’ love to the lilac,
          Warm with noon.—
Great hearts cold when the little
          Beat mad so soon.
What is their faith to bear it
          Till it come,
Waiting with rain-cloud and swallow,
          Frozen, dumb?

***

«Flower God, God Of The Spring» by Robert Louis Stevenson

FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,
Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,
Here I wander in April
Cold, grey-headed; and still to my
Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer,
Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant;
Spring, flower-planter in meadows,
Child-conductor in willowy
Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses:
Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity:

O child, happy are children!
She still smiles on their innocence,
She, dear mother in God, fostering violets,
Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins:
Thus one cunning in music
Wakes old chords in the memory:
Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances.
One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal
Green – one more, and my bosom
Feels new life with an ecstasy.

***

«Green Is Spring» by Elizabeth Y. Linn

Green is spring,
Bright, fresh, and new.

Yellow is the sun,
Bright, bold, and true.

Blue is the sky,
Shimmering and cool.

Purple is the king,
Quite royal in his rule.

Orange is fire,
Burning hot in the night.

Red is fall,
Bold, brilliant, and bright.

All these vivid colors combine,
So that in this world,
We never get bored.

***

«I Have This Way of Being» by Jamaal May

I have this, and this isn’t a mouth
           full of the names of odd flowers

I’ve grown in secret.
           I know none of these by name

but have this garden now,
           and pastel somethings bloom

near the others and others.
           I have this trowel, these overalls,

this ridiculous hat now.
           This isn’t a lung full of air.

Not a fist full of weeds that rise
           yellow then white then windswept.

This is little more than a way
           to kneel and fill gloves with sweat,

so that the trowel in my hand
           will have something to push against,

rather, something to push
           against that it knows will bend

and give and return as sprout
           and petal and sepal and bloom.

***

«In Perpetual Spring» by Amy Gestler

Gardens are also good places

to sulk. You pass beds of

spiky voodoo lilies   

and trip over the roots   

of a sweet gum tree,   

in search of medieval   

plants whose leaves,   

when they drop off   

turn into birds

if they fall on land,

and colored carp if they   

plop into water.

Suddenly the archetypal   

human desire for peace   

with every other species   

wells up in you. The lion   

and the lamb cuddling up.

The snake and the snail, kissing.

Even the prick of the thistle,   

queen of the weeds, revives   

your secret belief

in perpetual spring,

your faith that for every hurt   

there is a leaf to cure it.

***

«Lines Written in Early Spring» by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

***

«May» by Jonathan Galassi

The backyard apple tree gets sad so soon,

takes on a used-up, feather-duster look

within a week.

The ivy’s spring reconnaissance campaign

sends red feelers out and up and down

to find the sun.

Ivy from last summer clogs the pool,

brewing a loamy, wormy, tea-leaf mulch

soft to the touch

and rank with interface of rut and rot.

The month after the month they say is cruel

is and is not.

***

«May Day» by Sara Teasdale

A delicate fabric of bird song
  Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
  Is everywhere.

Red small leaves of the maple
  Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
  The pear trees stand.

Oh I must pass nothing by
  Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
  The grass with my touch;

For how can I be sure
  I shall see again
The world on the first of May
  Shining after the rain?

***

«May’s Spring Days» by Hemakumar Nanayakkara

Over the distant mountains morning breeze blows
Humming through robust beech birch and oak trees
Evergreen pines whistle to the tune of nippy breeze
Group of songbirds sing delightful springtime Songs

Twirling flossy clouds dance graceful waltzes
Mountain range beneath has got rich pastures
Cows graze fresh grass in lavish green Meadows
Chiming cowbells from mornings to evenings

Sunlight glistens after early morning showers
Pearls like dewdrops fastened to lilac flowers
Beautiful Little lilacs flourish in heavy Clusters
Spreading honey scented appealing fragrances

May’s spring days are refreshing and sunny
Trees have new leaves flowers rapidly bloom
When cool breeze blows through the garden
Young maple leaves rustle and pansies dangle

***

«Miracle on St David’s Day» by Gillian Clarke

An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed
with daffodils. The sun treads the path
among cedars and enormous oaks.
It might be a country house, guests strolling,
the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.

I am reading poetry to the insane.
An old woman, interrupting, offers
as many buckets of coal as I need.
A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens
entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic

on a good day, they tell me later.
In a cage of first March sun a woman
sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling.
In her neat clothes the woman is absent.
A big, mild man is tenderly led

to his chair. He has never spoken.
His labourer’s hands on his knees, he rocks
gently to the rhythms of the poems.
I read to their presences, absences,
to the big, dumb labouring man as he rocks.

He is suddenly standing, silently,
huge and mild, but I feel afraid. Like slow
movement of spring water or the first bird
of the year in the breaking darkness,
the labourer’s voice recites ‘The Daffodils’.

The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients
seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect.
Outside the daffodils are still as wax,
a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables
unspoken, their creams and yellows still.

Forty years ago, in a Valleys school,
the class recited poetry by rote.
Since the dumbness of misery fell
he has remembered there was a music
of speech and that once he had something to say.

When he’s done, before the applause, we observe
the flowers’ silence. A thrush sings
and the daffodils are flame.

***

«Monday Rain» by Mandeep Singh

My sister woke me up
and called me out,
I got up annoyed
and asked her what was it about.

she replied-come out, it’s gonna rain,
I jumped out of the bed,
and opened the glass window and,
a cool breeze whizzed past my head.

The delightful fragrance,
The magical lightning,
and the thunder storm
was very frightening.

To me it was the best creation of God,
the magnificent rain
and for others
it was just another Monday rain….!!!

***

«More Than Enough» by Marge Piercy

The first lily of June opens its red mouth.

All over the sand road where we walk

multiflora rose climbs trees cascading

white or pink blossoms, simple, intense

the scene drifting like colored mist.

The arrowhead is spreading its creamy

clumps of flower and the blackberries

are blooming in the thickets. Season of

joy for the bee. The green will never

again be so green, so purely and lushly

new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads

into the wind. Rich fresh wine

of June, we stagger into you smeared

with pollen, overcome as the turtle

laying her eggs in roadside sand.

***

«Narcissus» by Patricia Hooper

Near the path through the woods I’ve seen it:
a trail of white candles.

I could find it again, I could follow
its light deep into shadows.

Didn’t I stand there once?
Didn’t I choose to go back

down the cleared path, the familiar?
Narcissus, you said. Wasn’t this

the flower whose sudden enchantments
led Persephone down into Hades?

You remember the way she was changed
when she came every spring, having seen

the withering branches, the chasms,
and how she had to return there

helplessly, having eaten
the seed of desire. What was it

I saw you were offering me
without meaning to, there in the sunlight,

while the flowers beckoned and shone
in their flickering season?

***

«Nature’s Way» by Christopher Salerno

Upon a nice mid-spring day,
Let’s take a look at Nature’s way.
Breathe the scent of nice fresh air,
Feel the breeze within your hair.

The grass will poke between your toes,
Smell the flowers with your nose.
Clouds form shapes within the skies,
And light will glisten from your eyes.

Hear the buzzing of the bees,
Climb the tallest willow trees.
Look across the meadow way,
And you shall see a young deer play.

Pick the daisies as they grow,
Watch a gentle cold stream flow.
Know the sounds of water splash,
Catch its glimmer in a flash.

When altogether all seems sound,
Lay yourself upon the ground.
Take a moment to inhale,
And listen to Nature tell her tale…

By Heidi Campbell

«Notes For Further Study»

You are a nobody
until another man leaves
a note under your wiper:
I like your hair, clothes, car—call me!
Late May, I brush pink
Crepe Myrtle blossoms
from the hood of my car.
Again spring factors
into our fever. Would this
affair leave any room for error?
What if I only want
him to hum me a lullaby.
To rest in the nets
of our own preferences.
I think of women
I’ve loved who, near the end,
made love to me solely
for the endorphins. Praise
be to those bodies lit
with magic. I pulse
my wipers, sweep away pollen
from the windshield glass
to allow the radar
detector to detect. In the prim
light of spring I drive
home alone along the river’s
tight curves where it bends
like handwritten words.
On the radio, a foreign love
song some men sing to rise.

***

«Ode on the Spring» by Thomas Gray

Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours,

Fair Venus’ train appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,

And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat,

Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,

The untaught harmony of spring:

While whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,

Cool zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky

Their gather’d fragrance fling.

Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade;

Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech

O’er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water’s rushy brink

With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclin’d in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the crowd,

How low, how little are the proud,

How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care:

The panting herds repose:

Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,

Eager to taste the honied spring,

And float amid the liquid noon:

Some lightly o’er the current skim,

Some show their gaily-gilded trim

Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation’s sober eye

Such is the race of man:

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter thro’ life’s little day,

In fortune’s varying colours drest:

Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance,

Or chill’d by age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets,

No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,

No painted plumage to display:

On hasty wings thy youth is flown;

Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—

We frolic, while ’tis May.

***

«Ode to Spring» by Frederick Seidel

I can only find words for.

And sometimes I can’t.

Here are these flowers that stand for.

I stand here on the sidewalk.

I can’t stand it, but yes of course I understand it.

Everything has to have meaning.

Things have to stand for something.

I can’t take the time. Even skin-deep is too deep.

I say to the flower stand man:

Beautiful flowers at your flower stand, man.

I’ll take a dozen of the lilies.

I’m standing as it were on my knees

Before a little man up on a raised

Runway altar where his flowers are arrayed

Along the outside of the shop.

I take my flames and pay inside.

I go off and have sexual intercourse.

The woman is the woman I love.

The room displays thirteen lilies.

I stand on the surface.

***

«Paris In Spring» by Sara Teasdale

The city’s all a-shining
Beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind’s a-blowing,
The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
And falling one by one —
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time has begun.

I know the Bois is twinkling

In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean,
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And the leaves are growing green.

The sun’s gone in, the sparkle’s dead,
There falls a dash of rain,

But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
Beside her window-pane,
When it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time’s come again.

***

«Penumbrae» by John Updike

The shadows have their seasons, too.

The feathery web the budding maples

cast down upon the sullen lawn

bears but a faint relation to

high summer’s umbrageous weight

and tunnellike continuum—

black leached from green, deep pools

wherein a globe of gnats revolves

as airy as an astrolabe.

The thinning shade of autumn is

an inherited Oriental,

red worn to pink, nap worn to thread.

Shadows on snow look blue. The skier,

exultant at the summit, sees his poles

elongate toward the valley: thus

each blade of grass projects another

opposite the sun, and in marshes

the mesh is infinite,

as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight

drags across the desert floor

is infinitesimal.

And shadows on water!—

the beech bough bent to the speckled lake

where silt motes flicker gold,

or the steel dock underslung

with a submarine that trembles,

its ladder stiffened by air.

And loveliest, because least looked-for,

gray on gray, the stripes

the pearl-white winter sun

hung low beneath the leafless wood

draws out from trunk to trunk across the road

like a stairway that does not rise.

***

«Song For An Old-Fashioned April» by Judith Chiorazzi

April, April, how do I know
whether thou be friend or foe?
Give me sunlight, give me breath,
Give me belief there is no death.

How I wonder, my giver of the flower
Whether I’ll have staying power;
To wage this battle through thick and thin
To know my love will come back again…

Tell me April, who is my love,
The red robin or the cooing dove?
How can a messenger seem so still
While streams overflow with winter’s swill?

Give me love or give me power;
I’ll take some of both
And contemplate the flower……

***

«Song of a Second April» by Edna St. Vincent Millay

April this year, not otherwise
   Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
   Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
   Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day,
   And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
   The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
   The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep,
   Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
   Go up the hillside in the sun,
   Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.

***

«Song Of March» by Patricia L. Cisco

With winter’s footprints in the past,
and snows begin to melt at last.

With longer days and shorter nights,
the wayward winds of March take flight.

Four winds she holds within her grip,
then hurls them from her fingertip.

Her woolly, fleecy clouds of white,
she sets in skies of blue delight.

Her wild bouts of gusty breezes
roar through valleys, hills, and trees.

That high pitch whistling song she sings
awakens earth and flowering things.

She tears a hole in heaven’s sky
so sun can shine and rain can cry.

She gently calms as spring draws near,
as blooming daffodils appear.

She welcomes April showers in,
then gathers up her dwindling winds.
Now her long journey home begins,

knowing she’ll be back this way,
upon a cold, late winter’s day,

when nights grow short
and days grow long.

Listen for her whistling song!

***

«Song: Spring» by William Shakespeare

When daisies pied and violets blue

   And lady-smocks all silver-white

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue

   Do paint the meadows with delight,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,

                         Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: Oh word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

   And merry larks are plowmen’s clocks,

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

   And maidens bleach their summer smocks,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,

                         Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: Oh word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

***

«Sonnet 98» by William Shakespeare

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.
    Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
    As with your shadow I with these did play.

***

«Spring» by Martin Taylor

One of four siblings,
the youngest of course.
Or am I the oldest?
Not really sure.

I bring new life
and herald the warmth,
but hay fever, too,
is in my source.

Autumn has color
but tinged with decay.
Some call her Fall.
I think she’s OK.

Not like my bother,
cold in his breath.
Winter his name,
in darkness brings death.

Summer’s the one
that gets all the glory,
but brush fires and sunburn
are in her story.

So, season of choice,
who will win?
The one with potential,
of course; it’s Spring.

***

«Spring» by Camille Gotera

When the cold, harsh winter has given its last breath,
When the sky above shows life instead of death,
When the claws reaching to the frozen sky become decorated with leaves,
When the animals -long in hiding- scurry from trees,
We know winter has ended.

When the frost on grass is replaced with sweet dew,
When the fields become dotted with flowers, reminding me of you,
When the lonely silence becomes filled with melodies,
When you feel warm air, erasing bad memories
We know winter has ended.

When the hard, bare ground becomes painted with green,
When the frost-bitten air becomes fresh and clean,
When the coats and boots are all stored away,
When the playgrounds become occupied again with child’s play,
We know winter has ended.

When you hear the pleasant sound of children’s laughter,
When the air is filled with joy- long sought after,
When the world is filled with sunlight, brighter and longer,
When the song of Mother Nature becomes stronger,
Spring has begun.

***

«Spring» by Christina Rossetti

Frost-locked all the winter, 

Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, 

What shall make their sap ascend 

That they may put forth shoots? 

Tips of tender green, 

Leaf, or blade, or sheath; 

Telling of the hidden life 

That breaks forth underneath, 

Life nursed in its grave by Death. 

Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly, 

Drips the soaking rain, 

By fits looks down the waking sun: 

Young grass springs on the plain; 

Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees; 

Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, 

Swollen with sap put forth their shoots; 

Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane; 

Birds sing and pair again.

There is no time like Spring, 

When life’s alive in everything, 

Before new nestlings sing, 

Before cleft swallows speed their journey back 

Along the trackless track – 

God guides their wing, 

He spreads their table that they nothing lack, – 

Before the daisy grows a common flower 

Before the sun has power 

To scorch the world up in his noontide hour. 

There is no time like Spring, 

Like Spring that passes by; 

There is no life like Spring-life born to die, 

Piercing the sod, 

Clothing the uncouth clod, 

Hatched in the nest, 

Fledged on the windy bough, 

Strong on the wing: 

There is no time like Spring that passes by, 

Now newly born, and now 

Hastening to die.

***

«Spring» by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –         

   When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;         

   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush         

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring         

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush         

   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush         

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.         

What is all this juice and all this joy?         

   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,         

   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,         

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,         

   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.      

***

«Spring» by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

***

«Spring» by Eliza Cook

Welcome, all hail to thee!
     Welcome, young Spring!
Thy sun-ray is bright
     On the butterfly’s wing.
Beauty shines forth
     In the blossom-robed trees;
Perfume floats by
     On the soft southern breeze.

Music, sweet music,
     Sounds over the earth;
One glad choral song
     Greets the primrose’s birth;
The lark soars above,
     With its shrill matin strain;
The shepherd boy tunes
     His reed pipe on the plain.

Music, sweet music,
     Cheers meadow and lea;—
In the song of the blackbird,
     The hum of the bee;
The loud happy laughter
     Of children at play
Proclaim how they worship
     Spring’s beautiful day.

The eye of the hale one,
     With joy in its gleam,
Looks up in the noontide,
     And steals from the beam;
But the cheek of the pale one
     Is mark’d with despair,
To feel itself fading,
     When all is so fair.

The hedges, luxuriant
     With flowers and balm,
Are purple with violets,
     And shaded with palm;
The zephyr-kiss’d grass
     Is beginning to wave;
Fresh verdure is decking
     The garden and grave.

Welcome! all hail to thee,
     Heart-stirring May!
Thou hast won from my wild harp
     A rapturous lay.
And the last dying murmur
     That sleeps on the string
Is welcome! All hail to thee,
     Welcome, young Spring!

***

«Spring and All» by William Carlos Williams

By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines—

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches—

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind—

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined—
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance—Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken

***

«Spring And Winter» by William Shakespeare

WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,
   And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
   Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
   Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo! – O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
   And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
   And maidens bleach their summer smocks
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
   Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo! – O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

***

«Spring Has Sprung» by Judith Chiorazzi

Sun-kissed day
Blends into
Sun’s warmth of
Evening.
Forgive us, Lord,
If we be cleaving
To these gentle
Dappled nights
Filled with bird-song
And delights.
How can there be strife
When this peaceful day
Ascends and descends,
Gently like an amends?
For the harshness of hell,
And the troubles which dwell,
All winter in the human heart.
With spring we have a
Brand new start.

***

«Spring in New Hampshire» by Claude McKay

Too green the springing April grass,

Too blue the silver-speckled sky,

For me to linger here, alas,

While happy winds go laughing by,

Wasting the golden hours indoors,

Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,

Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,

The stars too gloriously bright,

For me to spend the evening hours,

When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,

Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.

***

«Spring in Tulwa Thlocco» by Alexander Posey

Thro’ the vine-embowered portal blows 
   The fragrant breath of summer-time; 
Far, the river, brightly winding, goes  
    With murmurs falling into rhyme.  
 
It is spring in Tulwa Thlocco now;  
   The fresher hue of grass and tree  
All but hides upon the mountain’s brow  
   The green haunts of the chickadee.  
 
There are drifts of plum blooms, snowy white,  
   Along the lane and greening hedge;  
And the dogwood blossoms cast a light  
    Upon the forest’s dusky edge.  
 
Crocus, earliest flower of the year,  
   Hangs out its starry petals where  
The spring beauties in their hiding peer, 
   And the red-buds crimson all the air.  

***

«Spring in War-Time» by Sara Teasdale

I feel the spring far off, far off,
    The faint, far scent of bud and leaf—
Oh, how can spring take heart to come
    To a world in grief,
    Deep grief?

The sun turns north, the days grow long,
    Later the evening star grows bright—
How can the daylight linger on
    For men to fight,
    Still fight?

The grass is waking in the ground,
    Soon it will rise and blow in waves—
How can it have the heart to sway
    Over the graves,
    New graves?

Under the boughs where lovers walked
    The apple-blooms will shed their breath—
But what of all the lovers now
   Parted by Death,
    Grey Death?

***

«Spring Pools» by Robert Frost

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.

The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods –
Let them think twice before they use their powers

To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.

***

«Spring Quiet» by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
“We spread no snare;

“Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

“Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be.”

***

«Spring Rain» by Sara Teasdale

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light’s stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say. . . .

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

***

«Spring Sings» by Tiffany Santa Cruz

Spring sings,
Its gentle breeze
Butterflies of Glazing wings
Birds cheerfully sing their
Lighthearted songs
As they soar across the meadow
Of elegant flowers
Delivering the message that spring is near
The flowers danced of such joy
The silent dance
Moved the lake
The water was sparkling
For the flowers danced gracefully
Across it
Spring sings its gentle song.

***

«Spring The Season Of Joy» by Rahat Sandhu

The spring is here and the sun is bright,
Everyone is playful they are not having anyone’s fright.
I could see the little birds swaying their wings,
I could hear the pretty flowers sing.
The green leaves that are dancing in the air,
Are fearless from everyone present here.
Tip! tip! tip! the water falls,
Sweep! sweep! sweep! the caterpillar crawls.
And when the playful squirrels run,
They seem that they are having so much fun.
As the small kids are swinging high,
Their rosy pink cheeks get shy.
Jumping, jumping come the rabbits,
I really praise their lovely habits.
As they play with their long ears,
Everyone forgets their cries and tears.
But lets wait for the butterflies,
Who keep on flying in the endless skies.
But now mam taps on the door,
And it’s the time to go indoor.
I’m always eager for the spring to come,
Because it brings along so much fun.

***

«Spring, the sweet spring» by Thomas Nashe

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:

      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,

And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:

      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,

In every street these tunes our ears do greet:

      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!

            Spring, the sweet spring!

***

«The Aftermath Of Melody» by Lisa Hart

Whispering quietly, the raindrops fall;
Such ominous secrets, for one so small.
Slowly, dispersing, the raindrops subside.
Leaving all but the hesitant, to trickle behind.

The storm has passed, the clouds have gone.
Out comes a robin to sing us his song.
He fills his heart with rhapsody, for
The aftermath of melody.

Flocks of birds, fast as they came,
To sing us a rainbow,
After the rain.

***

«The Enkindled Spring» by D.H. Lawrence

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, 
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, 
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between 
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. 

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration 
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze 
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, 
Faces of people streaming across my gaze. 

And I, what fountain of fire am I among 
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed 
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng 
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

***

«The Man Who Is Ready» by Charles Rafferty

I’m on the brink of daffodils.
The backyard snow is full of urine
blooms, the mud underneath is ready
to be itself. It won’t be long
before the planet tilts and the birds
roll north like marbles, the sap
crawls out of the bedrock. The meadow’s
sublimation makes me feel
like a piece of sky — ready to plummet,
ready to rain. Up on the mountain
the snowcap wishes toward water —
a wildness that doesn’t lose pace,
no matter the stones crowding its path,
no matter the roots of everything. Down here
I’m waiting for the ants to arrive
with their shifting script, their message
from below. I’m ready for this page,
this square of softening dirt,
for this garden of almost daffodils
to bang all my air to bells.

***

«The Spring» by Thomas Carew

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth

To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee.

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

In triumph to the world the youthful Spring.

The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array

Welcome the coming of the long’d-for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lour;

Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold

Her heart congeal’d, and makes her pity cold.

The ox, which lately did for shelter fly

Into the stall, doth now securely lie

In open fields; and love no more is made

By the fireside, but in the cooler shade

Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep

Under a sycamore, and all things keep

Time with the season; only she doth carry

June in her eyes, in her heart January.

***

«The Spring And The Fall» by Edna St. Vincent Millay

In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.

In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.

I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.

Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There’s much that’s fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
‘Tis not love’s going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.

***

«The Spring Crocus Fairy» by Anne Pollock

Awake, little crocus, spring is nigh!
Let me kiss the slumber from your eye.
Come! Dance with me upon the lawn,
The night is o’er, embrace the dawn!

How long I’ve waited patiently
Mid changing seasons of the year;
Through sunshine, harvest, and icy blast
When last I watched through frozen tears.

Now nature stirs from winter’s lair
As petals open to the rain,
And I shall hover ever near
Until you fall asleep again.

***

«The Thrush» by Edward Thomas

When Winter’s ahead,
What can you read in November
That you read in April
When Winter’s dead?

I hear the thrush, and I see
Him alone at the end of the lane
Near the bare poplar’s tip,
Singing continuously.

Is it more that you know
Than that, even as in April,
So in November,
Winter is gone that must go?

Or is all your lore
Not to call November November,
And April April,
And Winter Winter—no more?

But I know the months all,
And their sweet names, April,
May and June and October,
As you call and call

I must remember
What died into April
And consider what will be born
Of a fair November;

And April I love for what
It was born of, and November
For what it will die in,
What they are and what they are not,

While you love what is kind,
What you can sing in
And love and forget in
All that’s ahead and behind. 

***

«The Winter’s Spring» by John Clare

The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please–no bees to hum–
The coming spring’s already come.

I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,

Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
‘Tis but the winter garb of spring.

I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm’s best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O’er snow-white meadows sees the spring.

I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove’s brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.

It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring–the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature’s white spurts of the spring.

***

«To Daffodils» by Robert Herrick

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain’d his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having pray’d together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or anything.

We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer’s rain;

Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,

Ne’er to be found again.

***

«Today» by Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

***

«Villanelle Of Spring Bells» by Keith Douglas

Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.

People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.

Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears

make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.

Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring

warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.

All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.

***

«When Spring Goes By» by Duncan Campbell Scott

The winds that on the uplands softly lie,
Grow keener where the ice is lingering still
Where the first robin on the sheltered hill
Pipes blithely to the tune, “When Spring goes by!”
Hear him again, “Spring! Spring!” He seems to cry,
Haunting the fall of the flute-throated rill,
That keeps a gentle, constant, silver thrill,
While he is restless in his ecstasy.

Ah! the soft budding of the virginal woods,

Of the frail fruit trees by the vanishing lakes:
There’s the new moon where the clear sunset floods,
A trace of dew upon the rose leaf sky;
And hark! what rapture the glad robin wakes-
“When Spring goes by; Spring! Spring! When
Spring goes by.”

***

«Written In Early Spring» by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What Man has made of Man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure –
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What Man has made of Man?

***

«Young Lambs» by John Clare

The spring is coming by a many signs;
The trays are up, the hedges broken down,
That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines
Like some old antique fragment weathered brown.
And where suns peep, in every sheltered place,
The little early buttercups unfold
A glittering star or two–till many trace
The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold.
And then a little lamb bolts up behind
The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe,
And then another, sheltered from the wind,
Lies all his length as dead–and lets me go
Close bye and never stirs but baking lies,
With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.