80 Greatest Poems about Spring

Blooming flowers, green and dewy grass and trees, wild animals running freely, birds chirping, and winds softly echoing in my ears; are just a few things I like about Spring.

These are eighty (80) greatest poems about spring. If you also like this season, these poems are for you.

Keep reading!

“Spring, the sweet spring”


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!

Thomas Nashe

Return of Spring


From the French by Henry F. Cary


God shield ye, heralds of the spring!
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,
Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Turtles, and every wilder bird,
That make your hundred chirpings heard
Through the green woods and dales.


God shield ye, Easter daisies all,
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,
And he whom erst the gore
Of Ajax and Narciss did print,
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,
I welcome ye once more!


God shield ye, bright embroidered train
Of butterflies, that on the plain
Of each sweet herblet sip;
And ye, new swarms of bees, that go
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow
To kiss them with your lip!


A hundred thousand times I call
A hearty welcome on ye all!
This season how I love—
This merry din on every shore—
For winds and storms, whose sullen roar
Forbade my steps to rove.

Pierre de Ronsard

Spring


Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus’ train, appear,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.


Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade,
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’ercanopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardor 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 through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyed spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gayly 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 through life’s little day,
In Fortune’s varying colors drest:
Brushed by the hand of rough mischance
Or chilled 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 glittering 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 ’t is May.

Thomas Gray

Spring in Carolina


Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.


Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.


In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,
And there ’s a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.


Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season’s dawn;


Or where, like those strange semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature’s scorn,
The brown of autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.


In gardens you may note amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop’s tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.


But many gleams and shadows need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose’s mouth.

Still there ’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.


At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate


Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech’s heart,
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
“Behold me! I am May!”

Henry Timrod

Spring


Again the violet of our early days
Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;
The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,
Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run.
Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom!
Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!
Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb!
And thou shade-loving hyacinth, be born!
Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,
Whose dewdrops shall illume with pearly light
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite
Uplift in praise their glowing hands,
O’er every hill that under heaven expands.

Ebenezer Elliott

Spring


From “In Memoriam”


LXXXII.
DIP down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new-year, delaying long:
Thou dost expectant Nature wrong;
Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?


Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speedwell’s darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.


O thou, new-year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat with song.

*        *        *        *        *
CXIV.
Now fades the last long streak of snow;
Now bourgeons every maze of quick
About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.


Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.


Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale,
And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea;


Where now the sea-mew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood, that live their lives


From land to land; and in my breast
Spring wakens too; and my regret
Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Spring


Birds’ love and birds’ song
Flying here and there,
Birds’ songand birds’ love
And you with gold for hair!
Birds’ songand birds’ love
Passing with the weather,
Men’s song and men’s love,
To love once and forever.


Men’s love and birds’ love,
And women’s love and men’s!
And you my wren with a crown of gold,
You my queen of the wrens!
You the queen of the wrens —
We’ll be birds of a feather,
I’ll be King of the Queen of the wrens,
And all in a nest together.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Spring


Spring, and the wispy clouds that fade away
And draw the ecstatic soul in pain to aspire
In maddening flight through heaven’s thin flood of fire
To melt in rapture at the heart of day,
The powers of the world that promise and betray
Have dragged me from you in their icy ire
And set me spinning at their loom, for hire,
The shroud in which my senses must decay.
For hire I give myself, and cannot tell
If the blind force that flings me in the chest
Have power or will to pay the bargained price,
Yet for a word of love I gladly quell
The quivering hope of not inactive rest
And very humbly make my sacrifice.

John Le Gay Brereton

Spring


Sound the flute!
Now it’s mute!
Bird’s delight,
Day and night,
Nightingale,
In the dale,
Lark in sky,–
Merrily,
Merrily merrily, to welcome in the year.


Little boy,
Full of joy;
Little girl,
Sweet and small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise;
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.


Little lamb,
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft wool;
Let me kiss
Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

William Blake

Spring.


On, like a giant, stalketh the strong Wind,
Wrapping the clouds about him, close and dark,
Rifting Creation’s soul, for rage is blind,–
No pity hath he for the Earth all stark,
Shivering beneath the loose and drifting snow,
A scanty shroud to hide the dead below.

Dead? There is life within the mother’s breast–
So claspeth she her young ones to her heart;–
“The time will come–the time will come–rest! rest!
Let the mad greybeard to his North depart;
Earth shall arise and mock him in his grave–
Patience a little, let the dotard rave!”


The palsied boughs grew still–there came a pause,
And Nature’s heart scarce beat for listening,
Gazing abroad from all the tempest-flaws,
With prayerful longing for the saviour Spring;
And when she heard Spring coming up the sky,
Earth rose and threw her shroud off joyfully.


Then she who once had wept like Niobe,
Beheld her children springing round her feet,
Raising young voices in the early day,
That never to her ear had seem’d so sweet;
And the soft murmur of a thousand rills
Proclaim’d how Spring had loosed them on the hills.


The bright Evangel came, girt round with mirth,
And garlanded with youth, and crown’d with flowers
“Awake! arise! ye sons of the new birth,
And move to the quick measure of the hours!
Summer is coming–go ye forth to meet her,
With sweetest hymeneal songs to greet her.”


So there arose straightway a joyous train,
Gather’d by every nook and hedgerow shade,
That in its passage o’er the verdant plain,
‘Still in the heart a thrilling music made–
Sweet pilgrims they of Love in youth’s gay time,
Leading the year on to its golden prime.


The birds sang homage to her evermore;
And myriad wing’d things, whose radiant dyes
Made sunshine beautiful, still hover’d o’er,
And bore her witness in the sunlit skies;
And rising from the tomb in glad amaze,
Came many a sainted flower to hymn her praise.


Thus from the streams, and rivers, from the sea,
From the stirr’d bosom of the mighty hills,
From every glade there rose continually
A blessing for her, till with joyous thrills
Earth’s bosom heaved, and in man’s heart a voice
Echoed the anthem–“Spring is come! Rejoice!”

Walter R. Cassels

Spring


(After the German of Goethe, Faust, II)
When on the mountain tops ray-crowned Apollo
Turns his swift arrows, dart on glittering dart,
Let but a rock glint green, the wild goats follow
Glad-grazing shyly on each sparse-grown part.

Rolled into plunging torrents spring the fountains;
And slope and vale and meadowland grow green;
While on ridg’d levels of a hundred mountains,
Far fleece by fleece, the woolly flocks convene.


With measured stride, deliberate and steady,
The scattered cattle seek the beetling steep,
But shelter for th’ assembled herd is ready
In many hollows that the walled rocks heap:


The lairs of Pan; and, lo, in murmuring places,
In bushy clefts, what woodland Nymphs arouse!
Where, full of yearning for the azure spaces,
Tree, crowding tree, lifts high its heavy boughs.


Old forests, where the gnarly oak stands regnant
Bristling with twigs that still repullulate,
And, swoln with spring, with sappy sweetness pregnant,
The maple blushes with its leafy weight.


And, mother-like, in cirques of quiet shadows,
Milk flows, warm milk, that keeps all things alive;
Fruit is not far, th’ abundance of the meadows,
And honey oozes from the hollow hive.

Madison Julius Cawein

Spring


First Came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips;
A pursuivant who heralded a prince:
And dawn put on her livery of tints,
And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips:
And, all in silver mail, the sunlight came,
A knight, who bade the winter let him pass;
And freed imprisoned beauty, naked as
The Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame.
And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness,
Across the hills; and heav’n bent down to bless:
Above her head the birds were as a lyre;
And at her feet, like some strong worshipper,
The shouting water p’n’d praise of her
Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire.

Madison Julius Cawein

The Spring


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.

Thomas Carew

Spring.


What charms does Nature at the spring put on,
When hedges unperceived get stain’d in green;
When even moss, that gathers on the stone,
Crown’d with its little knobs of flowers is seen;
And every road and lane, through field and glen,
Triumphant boasts a garden of its own.
In spite of nipping sheep, and hungry cow,
The little daisy finds a place to blow:
And where old Winter leaves her splashy slough,
The lady-smocks will not disdain to grow;
And dandelions like to suns will bloom,
Aside some bank or hillock creeping low;–
Though each too often meets a hasty doom
From trampling clowns, who heed not where they go.

John Clare

Spring


Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens
In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks;
Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes,
Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks;
Where the blue unclouded sky
Spreads the sweetest canopy,
And Study wiser grows without her books.


Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring
Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose;
Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring
Fragrance and bloom, that Nature’s love bestows–
Meadow pinks and columbines,
Kecksies white and eglantines,
And music of the bee that seeks the rose.


Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks,
Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles;
Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks,
Through meadow gates, o’er footpath crooked stiles;
Come in thy proud and best array,
April dews and flowers of May,
And singing birds that come where heaven smiles.

John Clare

Spring


Hark how the merry daffodils,
Fling golden music to the hills!
And how the hills send echoing down,
Through wind-swept turf and moorland brown,
The murmurs of a thousand rills
That mock the song-birds’ liquid trills!
The hedge released from Winter’s frown
Shews jewelled branch and willow crown;
While all the earth with pleasure trills,
And ‘dances with the daffodils.’

Out, out, ye flowers! Up and shout!
Staid Winter’s passed and Spring’s about
To lead your ranks in joyous rout;
To string the hawthorn’s milky pearls,
And gild the grass with celandine;
To dress the catkins’ tasselled curls,
To twist the tendrils of the vine.
She wakes the wind-flower from her sleep,
And lights the woods with April’s moon;
The violets lift their heads to peep,
The daisies brave the sun at noon.


The gentle wind from out the west
Toys with the lilac pretty maids;
Ruffles the meadow’s verdant-vest,
And rings the bluebells in the glades;
The ash-buds change their sombre suit,
The orchards blossom white and red –
Promise of Autumn’s riper fruit,
When Spring’s voluptuousness has fled.
Awake! awake, O throstle sweet!
And haste with all your choir to greet
This Queen who comes with wakening feet.


Persephone with grateful eyes
Salutes the Sun–’tis Paradise:
Then hastens down the dewy meads,
Past where the herd contented feeds,
Past where the furrows hide the grain,
For harvesting of sun and rain;
To where Demeter patient stands
With longing lips and outstretched hands,
Until the dawning of one face
Across the void of time and space
Shall bring again her day of grace.
Rejoice, O Earth! Rejoice and sing!
This is the promise of the Spring,
And this the world’s remembering.

Michael Fairless

Spring


Et nunc omnis ager, mine omms parturit arbos;
Nunc frondent sylv’, nunc formostssimus annus.
Virgil.


Delightful harbinger of joys to come,
Of summer’s verdure and a fruitful year,
Who bids thee o’er our northern snow-fields roam,
And make all gladness in thy bright career?
Lo from the Indian Isle thou dost appear,
And dost a thousand pleasures with thee bring:
But why to us art thou so ever dear?
Bearest thou the hope upon thy radiant wing
Of Immortality, O soft, celestial Spring?


Yea, buds and flowers that fade not, they are thine,
And youth-renewing balms; the sear and old
Are young and gladsome at thy touch divine.
Thou breath’st upon the frozen earth behold,
Meadows and vales of grass and floral gold,
Green-covered hills and leafy mountains grand:
Young life leaps up where all was dumb and cold,
As smoldering embers into flame are fanned,
Or the dead came back to life at the touch of the Savior’s hand.


The snow-clouds fly the canopy of heaven;
The rivulets ripple with the merry tone
Of wanton waters, and the breezes given
To fan the budding hills are all thine own.
Returning songsters from the tropic zone
Their vernal love-songs in the tree tops sing,
And talk and twitter in a tongue unknown
Of joys that journey on thy golden wing,
And God who sends thee forth to wake the world, O Spring!


Emblem of youth enchanting goddess, Spring;
Lo now the happy rustic wends his way
O’er meadows decked with violets from thy wing,
And laboring to the rhythm of song all day,
Performs the task the harvest shall repay
An hundredfold into the reaper’s hand.
What recks the tiller of his toil in May?
What cares he if his cheeks are tinged and tanned
By thy warm sunshine-kiss and by thy breezes bland?


Hark to the tinkling bells of grazing kine!
The lambkins bleating on the mountain-side!
The red squirrel chippering in the proud old pine!
The pigeon-cock cooing to his vernal bride!
O’er all the land and o’er the peaceful tide,
Singing and praising every living thing,
Till one sweet anthem, echoed far and wide,
Makes all the broad blue bent of ether ring
With welcomings to thee, God-given, supernal Spring.

Hanford Lennox Gordon

Spring.


Oh! the world looks glad, for the spring has smiled,
And the birds are come with their “wood-notes wild,”
And the waters leap with a joyous sound,
Like freedom’s voice when a chain’s unbound.

And soon with its bloom will the earth be gay,
For the air is bland as the breath of May;
Sunshine and buds and all glorious things
Will give to the hours their downiest wings.


Nature has burst from her wintry tomb,
Wreathed with the glory of brightening bloom;
Fetters of frost-work are gently unbound,
Blossoms and flowers are clustering round.

Bosoms that know not the blighting of care,
Sunshine and gladness may smilingly wear;
But for the broken and desolate heart
Springtime, alas! has no balm to impart.


Tones that are hushed it awakens no more;
“Friends that are gone” it can never restore;
Yet e’en to the mourner one hope it may bring,
‘Tis the type of Eternity’s glorious spring.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Spring.


The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
In gray and hidden nooks o’erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song – the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown winged band,
Clear it arose, “Oh, follow me – come and follow – and follow.”


A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, “Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
Before the bloom of the rose is the tender green of the leaf;
Not rash is he who wisely followeth patient Nature’s ways,
The lily-bud of love should be swathed in a silken sheaf,
Unfolding at will to summer bloom in the warm and perfect days.”


So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white;
So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;
But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight,
For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared to tell;
It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth,
And high o’er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;
It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South,
Exultingly carolling clear, “Oh, follow me – oh, follow.”

Marietta Holley

Spring


Winter is past; the heart of Nature warms
Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms;
Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen,
The southern slopes are fringed with tender green;
On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,
Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,
Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,
White, azure, golden, – drift, or sky, or sun, –
The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast
The frozen trophy torn from Winter’s crest;
The violet, gazing on the arch of blue
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue;
The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould
Naked and shivering with his cup of gold.
Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high
Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky
On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves
The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves;
The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave,
Drugged with the opiate that November gave,
Beats with faint wing against the sunny pane,
Or crawls, tenacious, o’er its lucid plain;
From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls,
In languid curves, the gliding serpent crawls;
The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleep,
Twangs a hoarse note and tries a shortened leap;
On floating rails that face the softening noons
The still shy turtles range their dark platoons,
Or, toiling aimless o’er the mellowing fields,
Trail through the grass their tessellated shields.


At last young April, ever frail and fair,
Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,
Chased to the margin of receding floods
O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,
In tears and blushes sighs herself away,
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.


Then the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze,
Her clustering curls the hyacinth displays;
O’er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis,
Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free;
With yellower flames the lengthened sunshine glows,
And love lays bare the passion-breathing rose;
Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge
The rival lily hastens to emerge,
Her snowy shoulders glistening as she strips,
Till morn is sultan of her parted lips.


Then bursts the song from every leafy glade,
The yielding season’s bridal serenade;
Then flash the wings returning Summer calls
Through the deep arches of her forest halls, –
The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes
The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle blooms;
The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down,
Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown;
The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire
Rent by a whirlwind from a blazing spire.
The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat,
Repeats, imperious, his staccato note;
The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate,
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight;
Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings,
Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings.


Why dream I here within these caging walls,
Deaf to her voice, while blooming Nature calls;
Peering and gazing with insatiate looks
Through blinding lenses, or in wearying books?
Off, gloomy spectres of the shrivelled past!
Fly with the leaves that fill the autumn blast
Ye imps of Science, whose relentless chains
Lock the warm tides within these living veins,
Close your dim cavern, while its captive strays
Dazzled and giddy in the morning’s blaze!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Spring


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.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Spring.


From the French of Charles D’Orleans, Fifteenth Century.


Gentle Spring! – in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou – thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.


Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.


Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.

William Henry Giles Kingston

Spring.


The tiny crocus is so bold
It peeps its head above the mould,
Before the flowers awaken,
To say that spring is coming, dear,
With sunshine and that winter drear
Will soon be overtaken.

Lizzie Lawson

Spring


A certain Rudolf called out:
I have eaten too much.
Whether it’s healthy is very questionable.
After such a greasy lunch
I really feel uncomfortable.
But I belch beautifully and smoke
Cigarettes now and then.
Lying on my heavy belly,
I chirp nothing but songs of spring.
Longingly, as though on a ramp
The voice squeals from the throat.
And like an old lamp
The wind blackens the bitter soul.

Alfred Lichtenstein

Spring


All men are now greedy,
All women are shouting,
Hide yourself in your hump,
Remain alone –

Alfred Lichtenstein

Spring


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.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Spring.


I am coming, I am coming,
With my carpet soft and green;
I have spread it o’er the common,
And a prettier ne’er was seen.


Soon I’ll spangle it with clover,
And the dandelions bright;
You shall pick them in your aprons,
Yellow, red, and snowy white.


I am coming, and the tree-tops,
That all winter were so bare,
You shall see, with small leaves covered,
Wave their branches in the air.

I am coming! Little children,
Can you tell me who am I?
If not, you will soon remember,
For I’m just now passing by.

H. P. Nichols

Spring


A spring wind on the Bowery,
Blowing the fluff of night shelters
Off bedraggled garments,
And agitating the gutters, that eject little spirals of vapor
Like lewd growths.

Bare-legged children stamp in the puddles, splashing each other,
One – with a choir-boy’s face
Twits me as I pass…
The word, like a muddied drop,
Seems to roll over and not out of
The bowed lips,
Yet dewy red
And sweetly immature.


People sniff the air with an upward look –
Even the mite of a girl
Who never plays…
Her mother smiles at her
With eyes like vacant lots
Rimming vistas of mean streets
And endless washing days…
Yet with sun on the lines
And a drying breeze.


The old candy woman
Shivers in the young wind.
Her eyes – littered with memories
Like ancient garrets,
Or dusty unaired rooms where someone died –
Ask nothing of the spring.


But a pale pink dream
Trembles about this young girl’s body,
Draping it like a glowing aura.
She gloats in a mirror
Over her gaudy hat,
With its flower God never thought of…


And the dream, unrestrained,
Floats about the loins of a soldier,
Where it quivers a moment,
Warming to a crimson
Like the scarf of a toreador…


But the delicate gossamer breaks at his contact
And recoils to her in strands of shattered rose.

Lola Ridge

Spring


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.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Spring


In the spring the housemaid’s fancy
Lightly turns from pot and pan
To the greater necromancy
Of a young unmarried man.
You can hold her through the winter,
And she’ll work around and sing,
But it’s just as good as certain
She will marry in the spring.

Unknown

Spring


Once when my life was young,
I, too, with Spring’s bright face
By mine, walked softly along,
Pace to his pace.


Then burned his crimson may,
Like a clear flame outspread,
Arching our happy way:
Then would he shed


Strangely from his wild face
Wonderful light on me –
Like hounds that keen in chase
Their quarry see.

Oh, sorrow now to know
What shafts, what keenness cold
His are to pierce me through,
Now that I’m old.

Walter De La Mare

Spring.


O the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep,
And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep.


The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves,
Give never a murmur or sigh of woe – they are dead – no dead thing grieves.


No carol of love from a song-bird’s throat; the world lies naked and still,
For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.


Not a flower – a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft –
To lay its bloom on the dead river’s lips, that have kissed them all so oft.


But look! a ladder is spanning the space ‘twixt earth and the sky beyond,
A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace – the strong, the subtle, the fond!

Spring, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath,
Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.
Spring, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam’s heart


Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare – see the sap in the great trees start!
Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright,


A stirring and spreading of something fair – the dawn is chasing the night!
Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein,
The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.


Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in her hair,
With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;


Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes,
Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead to arise!


For see, as she bends o’er the coffin deep – the frozen valley and hill –
The dead river stirs, – ah, that ling’ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!


And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud,
Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!


The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old,
And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

Jean Blewett

The Spring.


“O Fons Bandusi’!”


Push back the brambles, berry-blue,
The hollowed spring is full in view;
Deep tangled with luxuriant fern
Its rock-imbedded crystal urn.


Not for the loneliness that keeps
The coigne wherein its silence sleeps;
Not for wild butterflies that sway
Their pansy pinions all the day
Above its mirror; nor the bee,
Nor dragon-fly which passing see
Themselves reflected in its spar;
Not for the one white, liquid star
That twinkles in its firmament,
Nor moon-shot clouds so slowly sent
Athwart it when the kindly night
Beads all its grasses with the light,
Small jewels of the dimpled dew;
Not for the day’s reflected blue,
Nor the quaint, dainty colored stones
That dance within it where it moans;
Not for all these I love to sit
In silence and to gaze in it.
But, know, a nymph with merry eyes
Meets mine within its laughing skies;
A graceful, naked nymph who plays
All the long fragrant summer days
With instant sight of bees and birds,
And speaks with them in water-words.
One for whose nakedness the air
Weaves moony mists, and on whose hair,
Unfilleted, the night will set
That lone star as a coronet.

Madison Julius Cawein

Spring.


I am a virgin, whom no man hath known,
And all desire to know. The figure I
Of mortal dream and mortal prophecy.
Thou desert Sphinx, with thy gray lips of stone,
Keep thy poor secret, I have kept mine own!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Spring Afterwards.


Ah, give again the pitiless snow and sleet
November’s leaves, or raving winds, that beat
The heart’s own doors, or rain’s long ache and fret!
Only, not spring and all this delicate sweet!
Or not this vision of a girl, so set
In April grass, in April violet!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Spring And Autumn.


Every season hath its pleasures;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard’s ruby treasures
Brighten Autumn’s soberer time.
So Life’s year begins and closes;
Days tho’ shortening still can shine;
What tho’ youth gave love and roses,
Age still leaves us friends and wine.


Phillis, when she might have caught me,
All the Spring looked coy and shy,
Yet herself in Autumn sought me,
When the flowers were all gone by.
Ah, too late;–she found her lover
Calm and free beneath his vine,
Drinking to the Spring-time over,
In his best autumnal wine.


Thus may we, as years are flying,
To their flight our pleasures suit,
Nor regret the blossoms dying,
While we still may taste the fruit,
Oh, while days like this are ours,
Where’s the lip that dares repine?
Spring may take our loves and flowers,
So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

Thomas Moore

Spring and Fall


to a young child


Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Spring And Music.


Spring, among her sylvan shades,
And the gladness of her glades,
Once in dreamy hours was straying,
Where sweet Music with her throngs
Of glad melodies and songs
In the happy vales was playing.


Pan beheld the fairy maids
As they gamboled in the shades,
And he swore they should not sever.
But that o’er the blooming land,
Heart to heart and hand in hand,
They should wander on forever.


Thus when come the gentle days
O’er the wildwood’s tangled ways,
There is found no gloomy weather;
For among the leafy bowers
And the valleys bright with flowers
Spring and Music walk together!

Freeman Edwin Miller

Spring Bereaved I


That zephyr every year
So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her: that wrapp’d in gowns of green
Meads were so early seen,
That in the saddest months oft sung the merles,
It was for her; for her trees dropp’d forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts
Did envy those our shades and calm resorts,
It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,
Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done;
But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.

William Henry Drummond

Spring Bereaved II

Sweet Spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs:
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show’rs.
Thou turn’st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;
But she, whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air,
Is gone–nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

William Henry Drummond

Bereaved III


Alexis, here she stay’d; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
She set her by these musked eglantines,
–The happy place the print seems yet to bear:
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar’d lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o’erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
And I first got a pledge of promised grace:
But ah! what served it to be happy so?
Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?

William Henry Drummond

The Spring Call


Down Wessex way, when spring’s a-shine,
The blackbird’s “pret-ty de-urr!”
In Wessex accents marked as mine
Is heard afar and near.


He flutes it strong, as if in song
No R’s of feebler tone
Than his appear in “pretty dear,”
Have blackbirds ever known.


Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I glean,
Beneath a Scottish sky,
And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen
Of Middlesex or nigh.


While some folk say – perhaps in play –
Who know the Irish isle,
‘Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there
When songsters would beguile.


Well: I’ll say what the listening birds
Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!” –
However strangers sound such words,
That’s how we sound them here.


Yes, in this clime at pairing time,
As soon as eyes can see her
At dawn of day, the proper way
To call is “pret-ty de-urr!”

Thomas Hardy

Spring – Cuckoo. (From The Villager’s Verse-Book.)


The bee is humming in the sun,
The yellow cowslip springs,
And, hark! from yonder woodland’s side
Again the cuckoo sings!


Cuckoo, cuckoo, no other note
She sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.


And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,
Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice
In my Redeemer’s praise.

William Lisle Bowles

Spring Dirge


A child came singing through the dusty town
A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear,
Forgetting for a space their ancient fear
Of evil days and death and fortune’s frown.


She sang of Winter dead and Spring new-born
In the green fields beyond the far hills’ bound;
And how this fair Spring, coming blossom-crowned,
Would cross the city’s threshold on the morn.


And each caged bird in every house anigh,
Even as she sang, caught up the glad refrain
Of Love and Hope and fair days come again,
Till all who heard forgot they had to die.


And all the ghosts of buried woes were laid
That heard the song of this sweet sorceress;
The Past grew to a dream of old distress,
And merry were the hearts of man and maid.


So, at the first faint blush of tender dawn,
Spring stole with noiseless steps through the gray gloom,
And men knew only by a strange perfume
That she had softly entered and withdrawn.


But ah! the lustre of her violet eyes
Was dimmed with tears for her sweet singing maid,
Whose voice would sound no more in shine or shade
To charm men’s souls at set of sun or rise.


For there, with dews of dawn upon her hair,
Like a fair flower plucked and flung away,
Dead in the street the little maiden lay
Who gave new life to hearts nigh dead of care.


Alas! must this be still the bitter doom
Awaiting those, the finer-souled of earth,
Who make for men a morning song of mirth
While yet the birds are dumb amid the gloom?

They walk on thorny ways with feet unshod,
Sing one last song, and die as that song dies.
There is no human hand to close their eyes,
And very heavy is the hand of God.

Victor James Daley

Spring Flowers


Bowing adorers of the gale,
Ye cowslips delicately pale,
Upraise your loaded stems;
Unfold your cups in splendour; speak!
Who decked you with that ruddy streak
And gilt your golden gems?


Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple’s richest pride arrayed,
Your errand here fulfil;
Go, bid the artist’s simple stain
Your lustre imitate–in vain–
And match your Maker’s skill.


Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroiderers of the carpet earth,
That stud the velvet sod,
Open to Spring’s refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker and your God.

John Clare

Spring Greeting.


From the German of Herder.


All faintly through my soul to-day,
As from a bell that far away
Is tinkled by some frolic fay,
Floateth a lovely chiming.
Thou magic bell, to many a fell
And many a winter-saddened dell
Thy tongue a tale of Spring doth tell,
Too passionate-sweet for rhyming.


Chime out, thou little song of Spring,
Float in the blue skies ravishing.
Thy song-of-life a joy doth bring
That’s sweet, albeit fleeting.
Float on the Spring-winds e’en to my home:
And when thou to a rose shalt come
That hath begun to show her bloom,
Say, I send her greeting!


Point Lookout Prison, 1864.

Sidney Lanier

Spring Has Come


Intra Muros


The sunbeams, lost for half a year,
Slant through my pane their morning rays;
For dry northwesters cold and clear,
The east blows in its thin blue haze.


And first the snowdrop’s bells are seen,
Then close against the sheltering wall
The tulip’s horn of dusky green,
The peony’s dark unfolding ball.


The golden-chaliced crocus burns;
The long narcissus-blades appear;
The cone-beaked hyacinth returns
To light her blue-flamed chandelier.


The willow’s whistling lashes, wrung
By the wild winds of gusty March,
With sallow leaflets lightly strung,
Are swaying by the tufted larch.


The elms have robed their slender spray
With full-blown flower and embryo leaf;
Wide o’er the clasping arch of day
Soars like a cloud their hoary chief.


See the proud tulip’s flaunting cup,
That flames in glory for an hour, –
Behold it withering, – then look up, –
How meek the forest monarch’s flower!


When wake the violets, Winter dies;
When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near:
When lilacs blossom, Summer cries,
“Bud, little roses! Spring is here!”


The windows blush with fresh bouquets,
Cut with the May-dew on their lips;
The radish all its bloom displays,
Pink as Aurora’s finger-tips.


Nor less the flood of light that showers
On beauty’s changed corolla-shades, –
The walks are gay as bridal bowers
With rows of many-petalled maids.


The scarlet shell-fish click and clash
In the blue barrow where they slide;
The horseman, proud of streak and splash,
Creeps homeward from his morning ride.

Here comes the dealer’s awkward string,
With neck in rope and tail in knot, –
Rough colts, with careless country-swing,
In lazy walk or slouching trot.


. . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Wild filly from the mountain-side,
Doomed to the close and chafing thills,
Lend me thy long, untiring stride
To seek with thee thy western hills!


I hear the whispering voice of Spring,
The thrush’s trill, the robin’s cry,
Like some poor bird with prisoned wing
That sits and sings, but longs to fly.

Oh for one spot of living greed, –
One little spot where leaves can grow, –
To love unblamed, to walk unseen,
To dream above, to sleep below!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Spring In Town.


The country ever has a lagging Spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses, showers and sunshine bring,
Slowly, the deepening verdure o’er the earth;
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
And one by one the singing-birds come back.


Within the city’s bounds the time of flowers
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day,
Such as full often, for a few bright hours,
Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May,
Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom,
And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.


For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then
Gorgeous as are a rivulet’s banks in June,
That overhung with blossoms, through its glen,
Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon,
And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers
Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.


For here are eyes that shame the violet,
Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies,
And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set,
The anemones by forest fountains rise;
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.


And thick about those lovely temples lie
Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled,
Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy,
And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world;
Who curls of every glossy colour keepest,
And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.


And well thou mayst, for Italy’s brown maids
Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed,
And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids,
Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest;
But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare,
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.


Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve,
To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give
Such piles of curls as nature never knew.
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight
Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright.


Soft voices and light laughter wake the street,
Like notes of woodbirds, and where’er the eye
Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by.
The ostrich, hurrying o’er the desert space,
Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.


No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,
Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,
Light as Camilla’s o’er the unbent corn,
A step that speaks the spirit of the place,
Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away
To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay.


Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care
For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show
Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,
And last edition of the shape! Ah no,
These sights are for the earth and open sky,
And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

William Cullen Bryant

Spring in Tuscany


Rose-red lilies that bloom on the banner;
Rose-cheeked gardens that revel in spring;
Rose-mouthed acacias that laugh as they climb,
Like plumes for a queen’s hand fashioned to fan her
With wind more soft than a wild dove’s wing,
What do they sing in the spring of their time


If this be the rose that the world hears singing,
Soft in the soft night, loud in the day,
Songs for the fireflies to dance as they hear;
If that be the song of the nightingale, springing
Forth in the form of a rose in May,
What do they say of the way of the year?


What of the way of the world gone Maying,
What of the work of the buds in the bowers,
What of the will of the wind on the wall,
Fluttering the wall-flowers, sighing and playing,
Shrinking again as a bird that cowers,
Thinking of hours when the flowers have to fall?


Out of the throats of the loud birds showering,
Out of the folds where the flag-lilies leap,
Out of the mouths of the roses stirred,
Out of the herbs on the walls reflowering,
Out of the heights where the sheer snows sleep,
Out of the deep and the steep, one word.

One from the lips of the lily-flames leaping,
The glad red lilies that burn in our sight,
The great live lilies for standard and crown;
One from the steeps where the pines stand sleeping,
One from the deep land, one from the height,
One from the light and the might of the town.


The lowlands laugh with delight of the highlands,
Whence May winds feed them with balm and breath
From hills that beheld in the years behind
A shape as of one from the blest souls’ islands,
Made fair by a soul too fair for death,
With eyes on the light that should smite them blind.


Vallombrosa remotely remembers,
Perchance, what still to us seems so near
That time not darkens it, change not mars,
The foot that she knew when her leaves were September’s,
The face lift up to the star-blind seer,
That saw from his prison arisen his stars.


And Pisa broods on her dead, not mourning,
For love of her loveliness given them in fee;
And Prato gleams with the glad monk’s gift
Whose hand was there as the hand of morning;
And Siena, set in the sand’s red sea,
Lifts loftier her head than the red sand’s drift.


And far to the fair south-westward lightens,
Girdled and sandalled and plumed with flowers,
At sunset over the love-lit lands,
The hill-side’s crown where the wild hill brightens,
Saint Fina’s town of the Beautiful Towers,
Hailing the sun with a hundred hands.


Land of us all that have loved thee dearliest,
Mother of men that were lords of man,
Whose name in the world’s heart work a spell
My last song’s light, and the star of mine earliest,
As we turn from thee, sweet, who wast ours for a span,
Fare well we may not who say farewell.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Spring In War Time


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?

Sara Teasdale

Spring Lilies.


‘Neath their green and cool cathedrals,
In the garden lilies bloom,
Casting to the fresh Spring Zephyrs
Peal on peal of sweet perfume.
Often have I, pausing near them
When the sunset flushed the sky,
Seen the coral bells vibrating
With their fragrant harmony.


And, within my quiet dwelling,
I have now a Lily fair,
Whose young spirit’s sweet Spring budding
Watch I with unfailing care:
God, in placing her beside me,
Made my being most complete,
And my heart keeps time for ever
With the music of her feet.


I remember not, while gazing
In her earnest eyes of blue,
That the earth has aught of sorrow
Aught less innocent and true;
And the restlessness and longing
Wakened by the cares of day,
With the burden and the tumult,
In her presence fall away.


Shield my Lily, Holy Father!
Shield her from the whirlwind’s might,
But protracted sunshine temper
With a soft and starry night;
‘Neath the burning suns of Summer,
Withered, scorched, the spring-flower lies,
Human hearts contract, when strangers
Long to clouds and tearful eyes.


Give her purpose strong and holy,
Faith and self-devotion high;
These Life’s common by-ways brighten
Every hope intensify.
Teach her all the brave endurance
That the sons of earth require;
May she, with a patient labor,
To the great and good aspire.


Should some mighty grief oppress her,
Heavier than she can bear,
Oh! sustain her by Thy presence,
Hear and answer Thou her prayer:
And whene’er the storms of winter
Round my precious Lily reign,
To a fairer clime transplant her,
There to live and bloom again.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

Spring Longing.


What art thou doing here, O Imagination? Go away I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didst come, for I want thee not. But thou art come according to thy old fashion. I am not angry with thee – only go away.
– Marcus Antoninus

Lilac hazes veil the skies.
Languid sighs
Breathes the mild, caressing air.
Pink as coral’s branching sprays,
Orchard ways
With the blossomed peach are fair.


Sunshine, cordial as a kiss,
Poureth bliss
In this craving soul of mine,
And my heart her flower-cup
Lifteth up,
Thirsting for the draught divine.


Swift the liquid golden flame
Through my frame
Sets my throbbing veins afire.
Bright, alluring dreams arise,
Brim mine eyes
With the tears of strong desire.


All familiar scenes anear
Disappear –
Homestead, orchard, field, and wold.
Moorish spires and turrets fair
Cleave the air,
Arabesqued on skies of gold.


Low, my spirit, this May morn,
Outward borne,
Over seas hath taken wing:
Where the mediaeval town,
Like a crown,
Wears the garland of the Spring.

Light and sound and odors sweet
Fill the street;
Gypsy girls are selling flowers.
Lean hidalgos turn aside,
Amorous-eyed,
‘Neath the grim cathedral towers.


Oh, to be in Spain to-day,
Where the May
Recks no whit of good or evil,
Love and only love breathes she!
Oh, to be
‘Midst the olive-rows of Seville!


Or on such a day to glide
With the tide
Of the berylline lagoon,
Through the streets that mirror heaven,
Crystal paven,
In the warm Venetian noon.

At the prow the gondolier
May not hear,
May not see our furtive kiss;
But he lends with cadenced strain
The refrain
To our ripe and silent bliss.


Golden shadows, silver light,
Burnish bright
Air and water, domes and skies;
As in some ambrosial dream,
On the stream
Floats our bark in magic wise.

Oh, to float day long just so!
Naught to know
Of the trouble, toil, and fret!
This is love, and this is May:
Yesterday
And to-morrow to forget!


Whither hast thou, Fancy free,
Guided me,
Wild Bohemian sister dear?
All thy gypsy soul is stirred
Since yon bird
Warbled that the Spring was here.


Tempt no more! I may not follow,
Like the swallow,
Gayly on the track of Spring.
Bounden by an iron fate,
I must wait,
Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.

Emma Lazarus

XVI: Spring Morning


Star and coronal and bell
April underfoot renews,
And the hope of man as well
Flowers among the morning dews.


Now the old come out to look,
Winter past and winter’s pains,
How the sky in pool and brook
Glitters on the grassy plains.


Easily the gentle air
Wafts the turning season on;
Things to comfort them are there,
Though ’tis true the best are gone.


Now the scorned unlucky lad
Rousing from his pillow gnawn
Mans his heart and deep and glad
Drinks the valiant air of dawn.


Half the night he longed to die,
Now are sown on hill and plain
Pleasures worth his while to try
Ere he longs to die again.

Blue the sky from east to west
Arches, and the world is wide,
Though the girl he loves the best
Rouses from another’s side.

: Alfred Edward Housman

Spring Morning


Ah, through the open door
Is there an almond tree
Aflame with blossom!
– Let us fight no more.


Among the pink and blue
Of the sky and the almond flowers
A sparrow flutters.
– We have come through,

It is really spring! – See,
When he thinks himself alone
How he bullies the flowers.
– Ah, you and me


How happy we’ll be! – See him
He clouts the tufts of flowers
In his impudence.
– But, did you dream


It would be so bitter? Never mind
It is finished, the spring is here.
And we’re going to be summer-happy
And summer-kind.


We have died, we have slain and been slain,
We are not our old selves any more.
I feel new and eager
To start again.


It is gorgeous to live and forget.
And to feel quite new.
See the bird in the flowers? – he’s making
A rare to-do!


He thinks the whole blue sky
Is much less than the bit of blue egg
He’s got in his nest – we’ll be happy
You and I, I and you.


With nothing to fight any more –
In each other, at least.
See, how gorgeous the world is
Outside the door!


SAN GAUDENZIO

D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Spring Morning – I


Thomalin.


Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?

Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May
Use they long to sleep?


Piers.


Thomalin, ’tis not too late,
For the turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the thrustle hath not been
Gath’ring worms yet on the green,
But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her young,
Nor her morning’s lesson sung
In the shady grove:
But the nightingale in dark
Singing woke the mounting lark:
She records her love.
Not the sun hath with his beams
Gilded yet our crystal streams;
Rising from the sea,
Mists do crown the mountains’ tops,
And each pretty myrtle drops:
‘Tis but newly day.


The Shepherd’s Pipe.

William Browne

Spring Morning – II

Willie.


Roget, droop not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet this morn with melody:
Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,
And her mate as proudly vants it
See how every stream is dress’d
By her margin with the best
Of Flora’s gifts; she seems glad
For such brooks such flow’rs she had.
All the trees are quaintly tired
With green buds, of all desired;
And the hawthorn every day
Spreads some little show of May:
See the primrose sweetly set
By the much-lov’d violet,
All the banks do sweetly cover,
As they would invite a lover
With his lass to see their dressing
And to grace them by their pressing:
Yet in all this merry tide
When all cares are laid aside,
Roget sits as if his blood
Had not felt the quick’ning good
Of the sun, nor cares to play,
Or with songs to pass the day
As he wont: fie, Roget, fie,
Raise thy head, and merrily
Tune us somewhat to thy reed:
See our flocks do freely feed,
Here we may together sit,
And for music very fit
Is this place; from yonder wood
Comes an echo shrill and good,
Twice full perfectly it will
Answer to thine oaten quill.
Roget, droop not then, but sing
Some kind welcome to the spring.


The Shepherd’s Pipe.

William Browne

The Spring, My Dear


The spring, my dear,
Is no longer spring.
Does the blackbird sing
What he sang last year?
Are the skies the old
Immemorial blue?
Or am I, or are you,
Grown cold?


Though life be change,
It is hard to bear
When the old sweet air
Sounds forced and strange.
To be out of tune,
Plain You and I . . .
It were better to die,
And soon!

William Ernest Henley

Spring Night


The park is filled with night and fog,
The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
Are dim and pearled.


Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
Gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights like sunken swords,
Glimmer and shake.

Oh, is it not enough to be
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
Should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
O, beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love,
With youth, a singing voice, and eyes
To take earth’s wonder with surprise?


Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied,
I, for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,
I, for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
O beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?

Sara Teasdale

Spring Offensive


Halted against the shade of a last hill,
They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease
And, finding comfortable chests and knees
Carelessly slept. But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.


Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,
For though the summer oozed into their veins
Like the injected drug for their bones’ pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky’s mysterious glass.


Hour after hour they ponder the warm field–
And the far valley behind, where the buttercups
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,
Where even the little brambles would not yield,
But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands;
They breathe like trees unstirred.


Till like a cold gust thrilled the little word
At which each body and its soul begird
And tighten them for battle. No alarms
Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste–
Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced
The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun,–
Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.


So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.


Of them who running on that last high place
Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell’s upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world’s verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence’ brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink.
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames–
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder–
Why speak they not of comrades that went under?

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

Spring On Mattagmi


Far in the east the rain-clouds sweep and harry,
Down the long haggard hills, formless and low,
Far in the west the shell-tints meet and marry,
Piled gray and tender blue and roseate snow;
East–like a fiend, the bolt-breasted, streaming
Storm strikes the world with lightning and with hail;
West–like the thought of a seraph that is dreaming,
Venus leads the young moon down the vale.


Through the lake furrow between the gloom and bright’ning
Firm runs our long canoe with a whistling rush,
While Potàn the wise and the cunning Silver Lightning
Break with their slender blades the long clear hush;
Soon shall I pitch my tent amid the birches,
Wise Potàn shall gather boughs of balsam fir,
While for bark and dry wood Silver Lightning searches;
Soon the smoke shall hang and lapse in the moist air.


Soon shall I sleep–if I may not remember
One who lives far away where the storm-cloud went;
May it part and starshine burn in many a quiet ember,
Over her towered city crowned with large content;
Dear God, let me sleep, here where deep peace is,
Let me own a dreamless sleep once for all the years,
Let me know a quiet mind and what heart ease is,
Lost to light and life and hope, to longing and to tears.

Here in the solitude less her memory presses,
Yet I see her lingering where the birches shine,
All the dark cedars are sleep-laden like her tresses,
The gold-moted wood-pools pellucid as her eyen;
Memories and ghost-forms of the days departed
People all the forest lone in the dead of night;
While Potàn and Silver Lightning sleep, the happy-hearted,
Troop they from their fastnesses upon my sight.


Once when the tide came straining from the Lido,
In a sea of flame our gondola flickered like a sword,
Venice lay abroad builded like beauty’s credo,
Smouldering like a gorget on the breast of the Lord:
Did she mourn for fame foredoomed or passion shattered
That with a sudden impulse she gathered at my side?
But when I spoke the ancient fates were flattered,
Chill there crept between us the imperceptible tide.


Once I well remember in her twilight garden,
She pulled a half-blown rose, I thought it meant for me,
But poising in the act, and with half a sigh for pardon,
She hid it in her bosom where none may dare to see:
Had she a subtle meaning?–would to God I knew it,
Where’er I am I always feel the rose leaves nestling there,
If I might know her mind and the thought which then flashed through it,
My soul might look to heaven not commissioned to despair.


Though she denied at parting the gift that I besought her,
Just a bit of ribbon or a strand of her hair;
Though she would not keep the token that I brought her,
Proud she stood and calm and marvellously fair;
Yet I saw her spirit–truth cannot dissemble–
Saw her pure as gold, staunch and keen and brave,
For she knows my worth and her heart was all atremble,
Lest her will should weaken and make her heart a slave.


If she could be here where all the world is eager
For dear love with the primal Eden sway,
Where the blood is fire and no pulse is thin or meagre,
All the heart of all the world beats one way!
There is the land of fraud and fame and fashion,
Joy is but a gaud and withers in an hour,
Here is the land of quintessential passion,
Where in a wild throb Spring wells up with power.


She would hear the partridge drumming in the distance,
Rolling out his mimic thunder in the sultry noons;
Hear beyond the silver reach in ringing wild persistence
Reel remote the ululating laughter of the loons;
See the shy moose fawn nestling by its mother,
In a cool marsh pool where the sedges meet;
Rest by a moss-mound where the twin-flowers smother
With a drowse of orient perfume drenched in light and heat:

She would see the dawn rise behind the smoky mountain,
In a jet of colour curving up to break,
While like spray from the iridescent fountain,
Opal fires weave over all the oval of the lake:
She would see like fireflies the stars alight and spangle
All the heaven meadows thick with growing dusk,
Feel the gipsy airs that gather up and tangle
The woodsy odours in a maze of myrrh and musk:


There in the forest all the birds are nesting,
Tells the hermit thrush the song he cannot tell,
While the white-throat sparrow never resting,
Even in the deepest night rings his crystal bell:
O, she would love me then with a wild elation,
Then she must love me and leave her lonely state,
Give me love yet keep her soul’s imperial reservation,
Large as her deep nature and fathomless as fate:


Then, if she would lie beside me in the even,
On my deep couch heaped of balsam fir,
Fragrant with sleep as nothing under heaven,
Let the past and future mingle in one blur;
While all the stars were watchful and thereunder
Earth breathed not but took their silent light,
All life withdrew and wrapt in a wild wonder
Peace fell tranquil on the odorous night:


She would let me steal,–not consenting or denying–
One strong arm beneath her dusky hair,
She would let me bare, not resisting or complying,
One sweet breast so sweet and firm and fair;
Then with the quick sob of passion’s shy endeavour,
She would gather close and shudder and swoon away,
She would be mine for ever and for ever,
Mine for all time and beyond the judgment day.


Vain is the dream, and deep with all derision–
Fate is stern and hard–fair and false and vain–
But what would life be worth without the vision,
Dark with sordid passion, pale with wringing pain?
What I dream is mine, mine beyond all cavil,
Pure and fair and sweet, and mine for evermore,
And when I will my life I may unravel,
And find my passion dream deep at the red core.


Venus sinks first lost in ruby splendour,
Stars like wood-daffodils grow golden in the night,
Far, far above, in a space entranced and tender,
Floats the growing moon pale with virgin light.
Vaster than the world or life or death my trust is
Based in the unseen and towering far above;
Hold me, O Law, that deeper lies than Justice,
Guide me, O Light, that stronger burns than Love.

Duncan Campbell Scott

Spring On The Down


When Spring blows o’er the land, and sunlight flies
Across the hills, we take the upland way.
I have her waist, the wooing wind her eyes
And lips and cheeks. His kissing makes her gay
As flowers. “Thou hast two lovers, O my dear,”
Say I; and she, “He takes what thou dost fear.”

Maurice Henry Hewlett

Spring On The Hills


Ah, shall I follow, on the hills,
The Spring, as wild wings follow?
Where wild-plum trees make wan the hills,
Crabapple trees the hollow,
Haunts of the bee and swallow?


In redbud brakes and flowery
Acclivities of berry;
In dogwood dingles, showery
With white, where wrens make merry?
Or drifts of swarming cherry?


In valleys of wild strawberries,
And of the clumped May-apple;
Or cloudlike trees of haw-berries,
With which the south winds grapple,
That brook and byway dapple?


With eyes of far forgetfulness,
Like some wild wood-thing’s daughter,
Whose feet are beelike fretfulness,
To see her run like water
Through boughs that slipped or caught her.


O Spring, to seek, yet find you not!
To search, yet never win you!
To glimpse, to touch, but bind you not!
To lose, and still continue,
All sweet evasion in you!


In pearly, peach-blush distances
You gleam; the woods are braided
Of myths; of dream-existences…
There, where the brook is shaded,
A sudden splendor faded.


O presence, like the primrose’s,
Again I feel your power!
With rainy scents of dim roses,
Like some elusive flower,
Who led me for an hour!

Madison Julius Cawein

Spring On The River.


O sun, shine hot on the river;
For the ice is turning an ashen hue,
And the still bright water is looking through,
And the myriad streams are greeting you
With a ballad of life to the giver,
From forest and field and sunny town,
Meeting and running and tripping down,
With laughter and song to the river.


Oh! the din on the boats by the river;
The barges are ringing while day avails,
With sound of hewing and hammering nails,
Planing and painting and swinging pails,
All day in their shrill endeavour;
For the waters brim over their wintry cup,
And the grinding ice is breaking up,
And we must away down the river.


Oh! the hum and the toil of the river;
The ridge of the rapid sprays and skips:
Loud and low by the water’s lips,
Tearing the wet pines into strips,
The saw mill is moaning ever.
The little grey sparrow skips and calls
On the rocks in the rain of the water falls,
And the logs are adrift in the river.


Oh! restlessly whirls the river;
The rivulets run and the cataract drones:
The spiders are flitting over the stones:
Summer winds float and the cedar moans;
And the eddies gleam and quiver.
O sun, shine hot, shine long and abide
In the glory and power of thy summer tide
On the swift longing face of the river.

Archibald Lampman

The Spring Oracle.


Oh prophetic bird so bright,
Blossom-songster, cuckoo bight!
In the fairest time of year,
Dearest bird, oh! deign to hear
What a youthful pair would pray,
Do thou call, if hope they may:
Thy cuck-oo, thy cuck-oo.
Ever more cuck-oo, cuck-oo!


Hearest thou? A loving pair
Fain would to the altar fare;
Yes! a pair in happy youth,
Full of virtue, full of truth.
Is the hour not fix’d by fate?
Say, how long must they still wait?
Hark! cuck-oo! hark! cuck-oo!
Silent yet! for shame, cuck-oo!


‘Tis not our fault, certainly!
Only two years patient be!
But if we ourselves please here,
Will pa-pa-papas appear?
Know that thou’lt more kindness do us,
More thou’lt prophesy unto us.
One! cuck-oo! Two! cuck-oo!
Ever, ever, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, coo!


If we’ve calculated clearly,
We have half a dozen nearly.
If good promises we’ll give,
Wilt thou say how long we’II live?
Truly, we’ll confess to thee,
We’d prolong it willingly.
Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo,
Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo!


Life is one continued feast
(If we keep no score, at least).
If now we together dwell,
Will true love remain as well?
For if that should e’er decay,
Happiness would pass away.
Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo,
Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo!


(Gracefully in infinitum.)

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A Spring Poem From Bion


One asketh:
“Tell me, Myrson, tell me true:
What’s the season pleaseth you?
Is it summer suits you best,
When from harvest toil we rest?
Is it autumn with its glory
Of all surfeited desires?
Is it winter, when with story
And with song we hug our fires?
Or is spring most fair to you–
Come, good Myrson, tell me true!”


Another answereth:
“What the gods in wisdom send
We should question not, my friend;
Yet, since you entreat of me,
I will answer reverently:
Me the summertime displeases,
For its sun is scorching hot;
Autumn brings such dire diseases
That perforce I like it not;
As for biting winter, oh!
How I hate its ice and snow!


“But, thrice welcome, kindly spring,
With the myriad gifts you bring!
Not too hot nor yet too cold,
Graciously your charms unfold–
Oh, your days are like the dreaming
Of those nights which love beseems,
And your nights have all the seeming
Of those days of golden dreams!
Heaven smiles down on earth, and then
Earth smiles up to heaven again!”

Eugene Field

Spring Pools


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.

Robert Lee Frost

Spring Quiet


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.’

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Spring Rain


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.

Sara Teasdale

The Spring Running


Man goes to Man! Cry the challenge through the Jungle!
He that was our Brother goes away.
Hear, now, and judge, O ye People of the Jungle,
Answer, who can turn him, who shall stay?


Man goes to Man! He is weeping in the Jungle:
He that was our Brother sorrows sore!
Man goes to Man! (Oh, we loved him in the Jungle!)
To the Man-Trail where we may not follow more.

Rudyard Kipling

Spring Song


I am the Vision and the Dream
Of trembling Age, and yearning Youth;
I am the Sorceress Supreme.
I am Illusion; I am Truth.


I am the Queen to whom belongs
The royal right great gifts to give;
I am the Singer of the Songs
That lure men on to live and live.


There is no music like to mine;
I sing in green, and gold and red;
I pour from secret casks the wine
That cheers the cold hearts of the dead.

My harp it has a thousand tones,
And makes the world with joy a-flood;
The old men feel it in their bones,
And life leaps laughing in their blood.


The sourest mortal all in vain
Shall try from me to keep apart;
I have no commerce with his brain,
I storm the fortress of his heart.


I am the Soul of things to come;
I make a lover from a log;
I make a poet of the dumb;
I make a seraph of a frog.

The lover with a wrecked romance,
The gambler by misfortune struck,
I bring to them another chance-
New life, new times, new love, new luck.


My names are all the names impearled
In all the songs my singers sing;
I am the sweetheart of the world,
I am Carissima-the Spring!

Victor James Daley

Spring Song.


Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!
When thy flowery hand delivers
All the mountain-prisoned rivers,
And thy great heart beats and quivers,
To revive the days that were,
Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!


Take my dust and all my dreaming,
Count my heart-beats one by one,
Send them where the winters perish;
Then some golden noon recherish
And restore them in the sun,
Flower and scent and dust and dreaming,
With their heart-beats every one!


Set me in the urge and tide-drift
Of the streaming hosts a-wing!
Breast of scarlet, throat of yellow,
Raucous challenge, wooings mellow–
Every migrant is my fellow,
Making northward with the spring.
Loose me in the urge and tide-drift
Of the streaming hosts a-wing!


Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle,
In the valleys come again;
Fife of frog and call of tree-toad,
All my brothers, five or three-toed,
With their revel no more vetoed,
Making music in the rain;
Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle,
In the valleys come again.


Make me of thy seed to-morrow,
When the sap begins to stir!
Tawny light-foot, sleepy bruin,
Bright-eyes in the orchard ruin,
Gnarl the good life goes askew in,
Whiskey-jack, or tanager,–
Make me anything to-morrow,
When the sap begins to stir!


Make me even (How do I know?)
Like my friend the gargoyle there;
It may be the heart within him
Swells that doltish hands should pin him
Fixed forever in mid-air.
Make me even sport for swallows,
Like the soaring gargoyle there!


Give me the old clue to follow,
Through the labyrinth of night!
Clod of clay with heart of fire,
Things that burrow and aspire,
With the vanishing desire,
For the perishing delight,–
Only the old clue to follow,
Through the labyrinth of night!


Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!
Fashion me from swamp or meadow,
Garden plot or ferny shadow,
Hyacinth or humble burr!
Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!


Let me hear the far, low summons,
When the silver winds return;
Rills that run and streams that stammer,
Goldenwing with his loud hammer,
Icy brooks that brawl and clamor,
Where the Indian willows burn;
Let me hearken to the calling,
When the silver winds return,


Till recurring and recurring,
Long since wandered and come back,
Like a whim of Grieg’s or Gounod’s,
This same self, bird, bud, or Bluenose,
Some day I may capture (Who knows?)
Just the one last joy I lack,
Waking to the far new summons,
When the old spring winds come back.


For I have no choice of being,
When the sap begins to climb,–
Strong insistence, sweet intrusion,
Vasts and verges of illusion,–
So I win, to time’s confusion,
The one perfect pearl of time,
Joy and joy and joy forever,
Till the sap forgets to climb!


Make me over in the morning
From the rag-bag of the world!
Scraps of dream and duds of daring,
Home-brought stuff from far sea-faring,
Faded colors once so flaring,
Shreds of banners long since furled!
Hues of ash and glints of glory,
In the rag-bag of the world!


Let me taste the old immortal
Indolence of life once more;
Not recalling nor foreseeing,
Let the great slow joys of being
Well my heart through as of yore!
Let me taste the old immortal
Indolence of life once more!


Give me the old drink for rapture,
The delirium to drain,
All my fellows drank in plenty
At the Three Score Inns and Twenty
From the mountains to the main!
Give me the old drink for rapture,
The delirium to drain!


Only make me over, April,
When the sap begins to stir!
Make me man or make me woman,
Make me oaf or ape or human,
Cup of flower or cone of fir;
Make me anything but neuter
When the sap begins to stir!

Bliss Carman (William)

Spring Song


A blue-bell springs upon the ledge,
A lark sits singing in the hedge;
Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
And life is brimming everywhere.
What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,
Is Spring, Spring, Spring!


No more the air is sharp and cold;
The planter wends across the wold,
And, glad, beneath the shining sky
We wander forth, my love and I.
And ever in our hearts doth ring
This song of Spring, Spring!


For life is life and love is love,
‘Twixt maid and man or dove and dove.
Life may be short, life may be long,
But love will come, and to its song
Shall this refrain for ever cling
Of Spring, Spring, Spring!

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Spring Song


Days of old,
Ye are not dead, though gone from me;
Ye are not cold,
But like the summer-birds fled o’er some sea.


The sun brings back the swallows fast
O’er the sea;
When he cometh at the last,
The days of old come back to me.

George MacDonald

Spring Song Of The Swallow.


Oh, the days are growing longer;
So rang the jubilant song of the swallow;
I come a-bringing beauty into the land,
The sky of the West grows warm and yellow,
Oh, gladness comes with my light-winged band,
And the days are growing longer.


Oh, the days are growing longer,
The wavy gleam of fluttering wings,
Touching the silent earth so lightly,
Will wake all the sleeping, beautiful things,
The world will glow so brightly – brightly;
And the days are growing longer.


Oh, the days are growing longer,
All the rivulets dumb will laugh, and run
Over the meadows with dancing feet;
Following the silvery plough of the sun,
Will be furrows filled with wild flowers sweet:
And the days are growing longer.


Oh, the days are growing longer;
Over whispering streams will rushes lean,
To answer the waves’ soft murmurous call;
The lily will bend from its watch-tower green,
To list to the lark’s low madrigal,
And the days are growing longer.


Oh, the days are growing longer;
When they lengthen to ripe and perfect prime,
Then, oh, then, I will build my happy nest;
And all in that pleasant and balmy time,
There never will be a bird so blest;
And the days are growing longer.

Marietta Holley

Spring Torrents


Will it always be like this until I am dead,
Every spring must I bear it all again
With the first red haze of the budding maple boughs,
And the first sweet-smelling rain?


Oh I am like a rock in the rising river
Where the flooded water breaks with a low call,
Like a rock that knows the cry of the waters
And cannot answer at all.

Sara Teasdale

Spring Twilight


The sun set late; and left along the west
A belt of furious ruby, o’er which snows
Of clouds unrolled; each cloud a mighty breast
Blooming with almond-rose.

The sun set late; and wafts of wind beat down,
And cuffed the blossoms from the blossoming quince;
Scattered the pollen from the lily’s crown,
And made the clover wince.


By dusky forests, through whose fretful boughs
In flying fragments shot the evening’s flame,
Adown the tangled lane the quiet cows
With dreamy tinklings came.


The sun set late; but hardly had he gone
When o’er the moon’s gold-litten crescent there,
Clean Phosphor, polished as a precious stone,
Burned in fair deeps of air.


As from faint stars the glory waned and waned,
The crickets made the oldtime garden shrill;
And past the luminous pasture-lands complained
The first far whippoorwill.

Madison Julius Cawein

Spring’s Bedfellow.


Spring went about the woods to-day,
The soft-foot winter-thief,
And found where idle sorrow lay
‘Twixt flower and faded leaf.
She looked on him, and found him fair
For all she had been told;
She knelt adown beside him there,
And sang of days of old.


His open eyes beheld her nought,
Yet ‘gan his lips to move;
But life and deeds were in her thought,
And he would sing of love.


So sang they till their eyes did meet,
And faded fear and shame;
More bold he grew, and she more sweet,
Until they sang the same.


Until, say they who know the thing,
Their very lips did kiss,
And Sorrow laid abed with Spring
Begat an earthly bliss.

William Morris

Spring’s Messengers


Where slanting banks are always with the sun
The daisy is in blossom even now;
And where warm patches by the hedges run
The cottager when coming home from plough
Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set.
Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met
Setting up little tents about the fields
In sheltered spots.–Primroses when they get
Behind the wood’s old roots, where ivy shields
Their crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide.
Cart ruts and horses’ footings scarcely yield
A slur for boys, just crizzled and that’s all.
Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side,
And snow in scarce a feather’s seen to fall.

John Clare

Spring’s Nosegay


The prim daisy’s golden eye
On the fallow land doth lie,
Though the Spring is just begun:
Pewits watch it all the day,
And the skylark’s nest of hay
Is there by its dried leaves in the sun.


There the pilewort, all in gold,
‘Neath the ridge of finest mould,
Blooms to cheer the ploughman’s eye:
There the mouse his hole hath made,
And ‘neath the golden shade
Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by.


Here’s the speedwell’s sapphire blue:
Was there anything more true
To the vernal season still?
Here it decks the bank alone,
Where the milkmaid throws a stone
At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill.


Here the cowslip, chill with cold,
On the rushy bed behold,
It looks for sunshine all the day.
Here the honey bee will come,
For he has no sweets at home;
Then quake his weary wing and fly away.


And here are nameless flowers,
Culled in cold and rawky hours
For my Mary’s happy home.
They grew in murky blea,
Rush fields and naked lea,
But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come.

John Clare

Spring’s Promises


When the spring comes again, will you be there?
Three springs I watched and waited for your face,
And listened for your voice upon the air;
I sought for you in many a hidden place,
Saying, “She must be there.”


“Surely some magic slumber holds her fast,
She whose blue eyes were morning’s earliest flowers,”
I sighed: and, one by one, before me passed
The rainbowed daughters of the vernal showers,
Saying, “She comes at last.”


Ah! broken promise of the world! how fair
You speak young hearts! In many a wanton word
Of lyric April, each succeeding year,
By risen flower, and the returning bird,
You vowed to bring back her.


And now the flutes are in the trees once more,
The violets breathe up through the melting snow,
Old Earth throws open wide her grassy door –
As if there were no violets long ago,
Or any birds before.

Richard Le Gallienne

So, here is the greatest compilation of poems about spring.

Let me know which one is your favorite! 😉

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