SPRING SONGS

SPRING SONGS

In a Spring Grove 

by William Allingham

Here the white-ray'd anemone is born, 

Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup; 

And primrose in its purfled green swathed up, 

Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn, 

Gray ash, and beech with rusty leaves outworn. 

Here, too the darting linnet hath her nest 

In the blue-lustred holly, never shorn, 

Whose partner cheers her little brooding breast, 

Piping from some near bough. O simple song! 

O cistern deep of that harmonious rillet, 

And these fair juicy stems that climb and throng 

The vernal world, and unexhausted seas 

Of flowing life, and soul that asks to fill it, 

Each and all of these,--and more, and more than these!'

Nightingales

by Robert Bridges

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, 

And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams wherefrom

Ye learn your song: 

Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,

Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air 

Bloom the year long!.

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:

Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, 

A throe of the heart, 

Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,

No dying cadence, nor long sigh can sound, 

For all our art.

 

The Year's At The Spring 

by Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in his Heaven- 

All's right with the world!

Spring Day 

by Amy Lowell

Bath

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is 

a smell of tulips and narcissus

in the air.

The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and 

bores through the water

in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It 

cleaves the water

into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of 

the water and dance, dance,

and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir 

of my finger.

Spring Quiet

 by Christina Rossetti

Gone were but the Winter,

Come were but the Spring,

I would go to a covert

Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn

Singeth a thrush,

And a robin sings

In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents

Are the budding boughs

Arching high over

A cool green house:

Spring Rain 

by Sara Teasdale

I thought I had forgotten,

But it all came back again

To-night with the first spring thunder

In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway

Where we stood while the storm swept by,

Thunder gripping the earth

And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,

For the street was a river of rain,

Lashed into little golden waves

In the lamp light's stain.