The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 11

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When Nature all is sad like me!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO SPRING

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languished head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee!

William Blake [1757-1827]

AN ODE ON THE SPRING

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring: While, 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'er-canopies 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 honied spring And float amid the liquid noon; Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began.

Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter through life's little day, In Fortune's varying colors dressed: 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 h.o.a.rded sweets, No painted plumage to display; On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-- We frolic, while 'tis May.

Thomas Gray [1716-1771]

SPRING

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.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay.

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 needs must pa.s.s Along the budding gra.s.s, 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 [1829-1867]

THE MEADOWS IN SPRING

'Tis a dull sight To see the year dying, When winter winds Set the yellow wood sighing: Sighing, oh! sighing.

When such a time cometh, I do retire Into an old room Beside a bright fire: Oh, pile a bright fire!

And there I sit Reading old things, Of knights and lorn damsels, While the wind sings-- Oh, drearily sings!

I never look out Nor attend to the blast; For all to be seen Is the leaves falling fast: Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth, Like a cricket, sit I, Reading of summer And chivalry-- Gallant chivalry!

Then with an old friend I talk of our youth!

How 'twas gladsome, but often Foolish, forsooth: But gladsome, gladsome!

Or to get merry We sing some old rhyme, That made the wood ring again In summer time-- Sweet summer time!

Then go we to smoking, Silent and snug: Naught pa.s.ses between us, Save a brown jug-- Sometimes!

And sometimes a tear Will rise in each eye, Seeing the two old friends So merrily-- So merrily!

And ere to bed Go we, go we, Down on the ashes We kneel on the knee, Praying together!