Chapter VI: Part III: Poems of Nature (2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

IN EARLY SPRING

O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise In the young children's eyes. But I have learnt the years, and know the yet Leaf-folded violet. Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell The cuckoo's fitful bell. I wander in a gray time that encloses June and the wild hedge-roses. A year's procession of the flowers doth pass My feet, along the grass. And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know The notes that stir you so, Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear Beginnings of the year. In these young days you meditate your part; I have it all by heart. I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers Hidden and warm with showers, And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall Alter his interval. But not a flower or song I ponder is My own, but memory's. I shall be silent in those days desired Before a world inspired. O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases, Earth, thy familiar daisies.

The poet mused upon the dusky height, Between two stars towards night, His purpose in his heart. I watched, a space, The meaning of his face: There was the secret, fled from earth and skies, Hid in his gray young eyes. My heart and all the Summer wait his choice, And wonder for his voice. Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire But to divine his lyre? Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries, But he is lord of his.

Alice Meynell [1850-1922]

SPRING From "Summer's Last Will and Testament"

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-too! Spring, the sweet Spring!

Thomas Nashe [1567-1601]

A STARLING'S SPRING RONDEL

I clink my castanet And beat my little drum; For spring at last has come, And on my parapet, Of chestnut, gummy-wet, Where bees begin to hum, I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum.

"Spring goes," you say, "suns set." So be it! Why be glum? Enough, the spring has come; And without fear or fret I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum.

James Cousins [1873-

"WHEN DAFFODILS BEGIN TO PEER" From "The Winter's Tale"

When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The, lark, that tirra-lirra chants, With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

SPRING From "In Memoriam"

LXXXIII Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year, delaying long; Thou doest 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 fox-glove 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.

CXV Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons 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 seamew 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 Become an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"THE SPRING RETURNS"

The Spring returns! What matters then that War On the horizon like a beacon burns, That Death ascends, man's most desired star, That Darkness is his hope? The Spring returns! Triumphant through the wider-arched cope She comes, she comes, unto her tyranny, And at her coronation are set ope The prisons of the mind, and man is free! The beggar-garbed or over-bent with snows, Each mortal, long defeated, disallowed, Feeling her touch, grows stronger limbed, and knows The purple on his shoulders and is proud. The Spring returns! O madness beyond sense, Breed in our bones thine own omnipotence!

Charles Leonard Moore [1854-

"WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING" Chorus from "Atalanta in Calydon"

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamor of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered, is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Maenad and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

SONG

Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues; Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steeped in morning dews.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the violets spring; In vain to me in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And everything is blest but I.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step I meet him on the dewy hill.

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 hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display; On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-- We frolic, while 'tis May.

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 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 [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 passes 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!

Thus, then, live I, Till, 'mid all the gloom, By heaven! the bold sun Is with me in the room Shining, shining!

Then the clouds part, Swallows soaring between; The spring is alive, And the meadows are green!

I jump up, like mad, Break the old pipe in twain, And away to the meadows, The meadows again!

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]

THE SPRING

When wintry weather's all a-done, An' brooks do sparkle in the zun, An' naisy-builden rooks do vlee Wi' sticks toward their elem tree; When birds do zing, an' we can zee Upon the boughs the buds o' spring,-- Then I'm as happy as a king, A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen.

Vor then the cowlsip's hangen flower A-wetted in the zunny shower, Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell, Bezide the wood-screened graegle's bell; Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell, Do lie in mossy nest among The thorns, while they do zing their zong At evenen in the zunsheen.

An' God do meake his win' to blow An' rain to vall vor high an' low, An' bid his mornen zun to rise Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes: An' in our trials He is near, To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear, An' turn our clouds to zunsheen.

An' many times when I do vind Things all goo wrong, an' v'ok unkind, To zee the happy veeden herds, An' hear the zingen o' the birds, Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words; Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin Do meake woone's soul so dark 'ithin, When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.

William Barnes [1801-1886]

"WHEN SPRING COMES BACK TO ENGLAND"

When Spring comes back to England And crowns her brows with May, Round the merry moonlit world She goes the greenwood way: She throws a rose to Italy, A fleur-de-lys to France; But round her regal morris-ring The seas of England dance.

When Spring comes back to England And dons her robe of green, There's many a nation garlanded But England is the Queen; She's Queen, she's Queen of all the world Beneath the laughing sky, For the nations go a-Maying When they hear the New Year cry--

"Come over the water to England, My old love, my new love, Come over the water to England, In showers of flowery rain; Come over the water to England, April, my true love; And tell the heart of England The Spring is here again!"

Alfred Noyes [1880-

NEW LIFE

Spring comes laughing down the valley All in white, from the snow Where the winter's armies rally Loth to go. Beauty white her garments shower On the world where they pass,-- Hawthorn hedges, trees in flower, Daisies in the grass. Tremulous with longings dim, Thickets by the river's rim Have begun to dream of green. Every tree is loud with birds. Bourgeon, heart,--do thy part! Raise a slender stalk of words From a root unseen.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-

"OVER THE WINTRY THRESHOLD"

Over the wintry threshold Who comes with joy today, So frail, yet so enduring, To triumph o'er dismay?

Ah, quick her tears are springing, And quickly they are dried, For sorrow walks before her, But gladness walks beside.

She comes with gusts of laughter,-- The music as of rills; With tenderness and sweetness, The wisdom of the hills.

Her hands are strong to comfort, Her heart is quick to heed; She knows the signs of sadness, She knows the voice of need;

There is no living creature, However poor or small, But she will know its trouble, And hearken to its call.

Oh, well they fare forever, By mighty dreams possessed, Whose hearts have lain a moment On that eternal breast.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

MARCH

Slayer of winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!

Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June, Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, Striving to swell the burden of the tune That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, Unmindful of the past or coming days; Who sing, "O joy! a new year is begun! What happiness to look upon the sun!"

O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss, But Death himself, who, crying solemnly, Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, Bids us, "Rejoice! lest pleasureless ye die. Within a little time must ye go by. Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live, Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give."

William Morris [1834-1896]

SONG IN MARCH

Now are the winds about us in their glee, Tossing the slender tree; Whirling the sands about his furious car, March cometh from afar; Breaks the sealed magic of old Winter's dreams, And rends his glassy streams; Chafing with potent airs, he fiercely takes Their fetters from the lakes, And, with a power by queenly Spring supplied, Wakens the slumbering tide.

With a wild love he seeks young Summer's charms And clasps her to his arms; Lifting his shield between, he drives away Old Winter from his prey;-- The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves, Goes howling to his caves; And, to his northern realm compelled to fly, Yields up the victory; Melted are all his bands, o'erthrown his towers, And March comes bringing flowers.

William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870]

MARCH

Blossom on the plum, Wild wind and merry; Leaves upon the cherry, And one swallow come.

Red windy dawn, Swift rain and sunny; Wild bees seeking honey, Crocus on the lawn; Blossom on the plum.

Grass begins to grow, Dandelions come; Snowdrops haste to go After last month's snow; Rough winds beat and blow, Blossom on the plum.

Nora Hopper [1871-1906]

WRITTEN IN MARCH

The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE PASSING OF MARCH

The braggart March stood in the season's door With his broad shoulders blocking up the way, Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore, And from the fringes of his kirtle gray. Near by him April stood with tearful face, With violets in her hands, and in her hair Pale, wild anemones; the fragrant lace Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like fair, Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there.

She on the blusterer's arm laid one white hand, But he would none of her soft blandishment, Yet did she plead with tears none might withstand, For even the fiercest hearts at last relent. And he, at last, in ruffian tenderness, With one swift, crushing kiss her lips did greet. Ah, poor starved heart!--for that one rude caress, She cast her violets underneath his feet.

Robert Burns Wilson [1850-1916]

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

SONG

April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears! April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears!

William Watson [1858-1935]

AN APRIL ADORATION

Sang the sun rise on an amber morn-- "Earth, be glad! An April day is born.

"Winter's done, and April's in the skies, Earth, look up with laughter in your eyes!"

Putting off her dumb dismay of snow, Earth bade all her unseen children grow.

Then the sound of growing in the air Rose to God a liturgy of prayer;

And the thronged succession of the days Uttered up to God a psalm of praise.

Laughed the running sap in every vein, Laughed the running flurries of warm rain,

Laughed the life in every wandering root, Laughed the tingling cells of bud and shoot.

God in all the concord of their mirth Heard the adoration-song of Earth.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-

SWEET WILD APRIL

O sweet wild April Came over the hills, He skipped with the winds And he tripped with the rills; His raiment was all Of the daffodils. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

O sweet wild April Came down the lea, Dancing along With his sisters three: Carnation, and Rose, And tall Lily. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

O sweet wild April, On pastoral quill Came piping in moonlight By hollow and hill, In starlight at midnight, By dingle and rill. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

Where sweet wild April His melody played, Trooped cowslip, and primrose, And iris, the maid, And silver narcissus, A star in the shade. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

When sweet wild April Dipped down the dale, Pale cuckoopint brightened, And windflower trail, And white-thorn, the wood-bride, In virginal veil. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

When sweet wild April Through deep woods pressed, Sang cuckoo above him, And lark on his crest, And Philomel fluttered Close under his breast. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

O sweet wild April, Wherever you went The bondage of winter Was broken and rent, Sank elfin ice-city And frost-goblin's tent. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

Yet sweet wild April, The blithe, the brave, Fell asleep in the fields By a windless wave And Jack-in-the-Pulpit Preached over his grave. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

O sweet wild April, Farewell to thee! And a deep sweet sleep To thy sisters three,-- Carnation, and Rose, And tall Lily. Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

William Force Stead [18--

SPINNING IN APRIL

Moon in heaven's garden, among the clouds that wander, Crescent moon so young to see, above the April ways, Whiten, bloom not yet, not yet, within the twilight yonder; All my spinning is not done, for all the loitering days.

Oh, my heart has two wild wings that ever would be flying! Oh, my heart's a meadow-lark that ever would be free! Well it is that I must spin until the light be dying; Well it is the little wheel must turn all day for me!

All the hill-tops beckon, and beyond the western meadows Something calls me ever, calls me ever, low and clear: A little tree as young as I, the coming summer shadows,-- The voice of running waters that I ever thirst to hear.

Oftentime the plea of it has set my wings a-beating; Oftentimes it coaxes, as I sit in weary-wise, Till the wild life hastens out to wild things all entreating, And leaves me at the spinning-wheel, with dark, unseeing eyes.

Josephine Preston Peabody [1874-1922]

SONG: ON MAY MORNING

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

John Milton [1608-1674]

A MAY BURDEN

Though meadow-ways as I did tread, The corn grew in great lustihead, And hey! the beeches burgeoned. By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! It is the month, the jolly month, It is the jolly month of May.

God ripe the wines and corn, I say, And wenches for the marriage-day, And boys to teach love's comely play. By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! It is the month, the jolly month, It is the jolly month of May.

As I went down by lane and lea, The daisies reddened so, pardie! "Blushets!" I said, "I well do see, By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! The thing ye think of in this month, Heigho! this jolly month of May."

As down I went by rye and oats, The blossoms smelt of kisses; throats Of birds turned kisses into notes; By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! The kiss it is a growing flower, I trow, this jolly month of May.

God send a mouth to every kiss, Seeing the blossom of this bliss By gathering doth grow, certes! By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! Thy brow-garland pushed all aslant Tells--but I tell not, wanton May!

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; Nay! not so much as out of bed; When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, When as a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimmed with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and wooed and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapor or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again: So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

"SISTER, AWAKE!"

Sister, awake! close not your eyes! The day her light discloses, And the bright morning doth arise Out of her bed of roses.

See the clear sun, the world's bright eye, In at our window peeping: Lo, how he blusheth to espy Us idle wenches sleeping!

Therefore awake! make haste, I say, And let us, without staying, All in our gowns of green so gay Into the Park a-maying!

Unknown

MAY

May! queen of blossoms, And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us, Or pipe or wire; Thou hast the golden bee Ripened with fire; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame and free-livers; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers, And the whole plumy flight Warbling the day and night-- Up at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers!

Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]

MAY

Come walk with me along this willowed lane, Where, like lost coinage from some miser's store, The golden dandelions more and more Glow, as the warm sun kisses them again! For this is May! who with a daisy chain Leads on the laughing Hours; for now is o'er Long winter's trance. No longer rise and roar His forest-wrenching blasts. The hopeful swain, Along the furrow, sings behind his team; Loud pipes the redbreast--troubadour of spring, And vocal all the morning copses ring; More blue the skies in lucent lakelets gleam; And the glad earth, caressed by murmuring showers, Wakes like a bride, to deck herself with flowers!

Henry Sylvester Cornwell [1831-1886]

A SPRING LILT

Through the silver mist Of the blossom-spray Trill the orioles: list To their joyous lay! "What in all the world, in all the world," they say, Is half so sweet, so sweet, is half so sweet as May?"

"June! June! June!" Low croon The brown bees in the clover. "Sweet! sweet! sweet!" Repeat The robins, nested over.

Unknown

SUMMER LONGINGS

Ah! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May,-- Waiting for the pleasant rambles Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, With the woodbine alternating, Scent the dewy way. Ah! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May,-- Longing to escape from study To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging To the summer's day. Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May,-- Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, All the winter lay. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May,-- Throbbing for the seaside billows, Or the water-wooing willows; Where, in laughing and in sobbing, Glide the streams away. Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing, Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May: Spring goes by with wasted warnings,-- Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,-- Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away; Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May!

Denis Florence MacCarthy [1817-1882]

MIDSUMMER

Around this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise.

O, softly on yon banks of haze, Her rosy face the Summer lays!

Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of cloudland lie, Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

Through all the long midsummer-day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Just where the field and forest meet,- Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet.

I watch the mowers, as they go Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring. Behind the nimble youngsters run, And toss the thick swaths in the sun. The cattle graze, while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, where summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

The butterfly and humblebee Come to the pleasant woods with me; Quickly before me runs the quail, Her chickens skulk behind the rail; High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the woodpecker pecks and flits. Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats its throbbing drum. The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house. The oriole flashes by; and, look! Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. O, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read: A dear Companion here abides; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His Voice: I lie and listen, and rejoice.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A MIDSUMMER SONG

O, Father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will: "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! O, where's Polly?"

From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound-- A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo, And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo: "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! O, where's Polly?"

Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom, And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose. But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! O, where's Polly?

How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter! The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter. O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill. But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! O, where's Polly?

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]

JUNE From the Prelude to "The Vision of Sir Launfal"

Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest corner. And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

JUNE

When the bubble moon is young, Down the sources of the breeze, Like a yellow lantern hung In the tops of blackened trees, There is promise she will grow Into beauty unforetold, Into all unthought-of gold. Heigh ho!

When the Spring has dipped her foot, Like a bather, in the air, And the ripples warm the root Till the little flowers dare, There is promise she will grow Sweeter than the Springs of old, Fairer than was ever told. Heigh ho!

But the moon of middle night, Risen, is the rounded moon; And the Spring of budding light Eddies into just a June. Ah, the promise--was it so? Nay, the gift was fairy gold; All the new is over-old. Heigh ho!

Harrison Smith Morris [1856-

HARVEST

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Is the wind's song, Astir in the rippled wheat All day long, It hath the brook's wild gayety, The sorrowful cry of the sea. Oh, hush and hear! Sweet, sweet and clear, Above the locust's whirr And hum of bee Rises that soft, pathetic harmony.

In the meadow-grass The innocent white daisies blow, The dandelion plume doth pass Vaguely to and fro,-- The unquiet spirit of a flower That hath too brief an hour.

Now doth a little cloud all white, Or golden bright, Drift down the warm, blue sky; And now on the horizon line, Where dusky woodlands lie, A sunny mist doth shine, Like to a veil before a holy shrine, Concealing, half-revealing, things divine.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Is the wind's song, Astir in the rippled wheat All day long. That exquisite music calls The reaper everywhere-- Life and death must share. The golden harvest falls.

So doth all end,-- Honored Philosophy, Science and Art, The bloom of the heart;-- Master, Consoler, Friend, Make Thou the harvest of our days To fall within Thy ways.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]

SCYTHE SONG

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the grass below? Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, Something, still, they say as they pass; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, Hush, they sing to the clover deep! Hush--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- Hush, and heed not, for all things pass, Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the grass!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

SEPTEMBER

Sweet is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And soft the breezes blow, And eddying come and go, In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, And glittering insects gleam Above the reedy stream, Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall, And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill The winds shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The pollen-dusted bees Search for the honey-lees That linger in the last flowers of September, While plaintive mourning doves Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember.

The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest summer, stay!" The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees, And round about my temples fondly lingers, In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.

Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams, Passing the fairest glories of the present!

George Arnold [1834-1865]

INDIAN SUMMER

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June,-- A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!

Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]

PREVISION

Oh, days of beauty standing veiled apart, With dreamy skies and tender, tremulous air, In this rich Indian summer of the heart Well may the earth her jewelled halo wear.

The long brown fields--no longer drear and dull-- Burn with the glow of these deep-hearted hours. Until the dry weeds seem more beautiful, More spiritlike than even summer's flowers.

But yesterday the world was stricken bare, Left old and dead in gray, enshrouding gloom; To-day what vivid wonder of the air Awakes the soul of vanished light and bloom?

Sharp with the clean, fine ecstasy of death, A mightier wind shall strike the shrinking earth, An exhalation of creative breath Wake the white wonder of the winter's birth.

In her wide Pantheon--her temple place-- Wrapped in strange beauty and new comforting, We shall not miss the Summer's full-blown grace, Nor hunger for the swift, exquisite Spring.

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]

A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN

When late in summer the streams run yellow, Burst the bridges and spread into bays; When berries are black and peaches are mellow, And hills are hidden by rainy haze;

When the goldenrod is golden still, But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder; When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill, And slides o'er the path the striped adder;

When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket, Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf; When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket, Grasshopper's rasp, and rustle of sheaf;

When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle, And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown; When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle, And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone;

When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle And shadows are deep in the heat of noon; When the air is white with the down o' the thistle, And the sky is red with the harvest moon;

O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary, No time let slip, not a moment wait! If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning; And they who would wed must be done with their mooning; So let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle, And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate!

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]

TO AUTUMN

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river shallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats [1795-1821]

ODE TO AUTUMN

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;-- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun, Oping the dusky eyelids of the South, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds?--Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noonday, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the West, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, When the mild Eve by sudden Night is pressed Like tearful Prosperine, snatched from her flowers, To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?-- Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard, The ants have brimmed their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have stored The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have winged across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the withered world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drowned past In the hushed mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair: She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;-- There is enough of withered everywhere To make her bower,--and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-- Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

ODE TO THE WEST WIND