Archives For Spring

 

Crocus

Today (March 20) is the first day of spring…
Here are a few of our favorite spring poems:

 

Another Spring

Christina Rossetti

If I might see another Spring
I’d not plant summer flowers and wait:
I’d have my crocuses at once,
My leafless pink mezereons,
My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet
My white or azure violet,
Leaf-nested primrose; anything
To blow at once not late.

If I might see another Spring
I’d listen to the daylight birds
That build their nests and pair and sing,
Nor wait for mateless nightingale;
I’d listen to the lusty herds,
The ewes with lambs as white as snow,
I’d find out music in the hail
And all the winds that blow.

If I might see another Spring–
O stinging comment on my past
That all my past results in “if”–
If I might see another Spring
I’d laugh to-day, to-day is brief;
I would not wait for anything:
I’d use to-day that cannot last,
Be glad to-day and sing.

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Today is the birthday of Robert Frost, born 1874.

*** [easyazon-link keywords=”Robert Frost” locale=”us”]Books By Robert Frost[/easyazon-link]

Although it’s spring here in Central Indiana, when we should be experiencing the first gold of spring…

 





 

Our weather is more like “Stopping by Woods on A Snowy Evening”:
 



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Spring
Anonymous Japanese Poet

Today is World Poetry Day…

*** [easyazon-link keywords=”Japan poems” locale=”us”]Collections of Japanese Poems[/easyazon-link]

When winter turns to spring,
The dews of morn in pearly radiance lie,
The mists of eve rise circling to the sky,
And Kaminábi’s thickets ring
With the sweet notes the nightingale doth sing.

——-

This poem appears in the FREE ebook
Japanese Literature by Epiphanius Wilson

Available in a variety of formats (Kindle, Nook, etc)
Project Gutenberg.

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May
Hilaire Belloc

This is the laughing-eyed amongst them all:
My lady’s month. A season of young things.
She rules the light with harmony, and brings

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The Lent Lily
A.E. Housman

‘Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble Continue Reading…

 

Emily Dickinson
A Little Madness in the Spring



A little madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own!

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The Sleep of Spring
John Clare.

O for that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!—
The babe upon its mother’s breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain—
When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother’s breast
Sweet Nature’s garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest—
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e’en—
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play;
Twas pleasure e’en to weep;
Twas joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?

 

Out of May’s Shows Selected
Walt Whitman

Apple orchards, the trees all cover’d with blossoms;
Wheat fields carpeted far and near in vital emerald green;
The eternal, exhaustless freshness of each early morning;
The yellow, golden, transparent haze of the warm afternoon sun;
The aspiring lilac bushes with profuse purple or white flowers.





 

THE WIDOW’S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME

William Carlos Williams

Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years
I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches
and color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy
formerly, today I notice them
and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the distance, he saw
trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.

 

Spring Thaw
Maureen Doallas
From her book Neruda’s Memoirs
[ Read our review… ]


Heads up:

tiny shoots

break earth’s shell

spring up

from winter’s

bed of dreams

showing us

how to make

a comeback

every time.