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Posts Tagged ‘Spring’

(as told to a child)

As I went out, a Crow
In a low voice said, “Oh,
I was looking for you.
How do you do?
I just came to tell you
To tell Lesley (will you?)
That her little Bluebird
Wanted me to bring word
That the north wind last night
That made the stars bright
And made ice on the trough
Almost made him cough
His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly!
But he sent her Good-by,
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,
And look for skunk tracks
In the snow with an ax –
And do everything!
And perhaps in the spring
He would come back and sing.”

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There will be rose and rhododendron
When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard from white syringas
Heavy with bees, a sunny sound;

Still will the tamaracks be raining
After the rain has ceased, and still
Will there be robins in the stubble,
Grey sheep upon the warm green hill.

Spring will not ail nor autumn falter;
Nothing will know that you are gone, –
Saving alone some sullen plough-land
None but yourself sets foot upon;

Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed
Nothing will know that you are dead, –
These, and perhaps a useless wagon
Standing beside some tumbled shed.

Oh, there will pass with your great passing
Little of beauty not your own, –
Only the light from common water,
Only the grace from simple stone!

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If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,

O nymph reserv’d, while now the bright-hair’d sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’er hang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey’d bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises ‘midst the twilight path,
Against the Pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid compos’d,
To breathe some soften’d strain,

Whose numbers, stealing thro’ my darkning vale
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov’d return!

For when thy folding-star arising shews
His play circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in flowers the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the fresh’ning dew, and lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,
Or upland fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill blust’ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut
That from the mountain’s side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his show’rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport,
Beneath thy ling’ring light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter yelling thro’ the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip’d Health
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav’rite name!

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The sun does rise
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells’ cheerful sound;
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green. 

Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
“Such, such were the joys
When we all – girls and boys –
In our youth-time were seen
On the echoing green. 

Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry:
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green.

 

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Spring is a skipping pretty girl
With flowers in her hair,
Remaking all the meadows’ moods;
By May, she’s twice as fair. 

Close on her heels, kin – Summer – comes,
A lad who likes to race.
He’s bursting with great energy,
And fierce and flushed his face. 

Fall is a lady, elegant –
Dressed in her finery.
She is a bit aloof: just take
Or leave her to her spree. 

But Winter is a grumpy man;
And old and gruff he seems.
Both biting bitterness and gloom
Can be his aged extremes.
 

As each one comes, treat each one well
And pay their tip or fee.
Not only will you live in them,
But each one could you be.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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……………………………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 glass 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.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oNLoNb4/Spring+flowers

 

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………

Sonnet 52 – The Tide Of Spring

The tide of Spring comes washing through the woods
Pushed by the vernal moon, pulled by our pining.
As welcome as a million Robin Hoods,
The youthful paint’s a feast for our eyes’ dining.

What merriment it puts into our hearts!
What joy that Nature once again is living!
The cold dry husk that’s Earth flies wide apart;
We view the riches it is ever giving.

When Winter leaves a hemisphere behind,
A weight is gone; a burden has been lifted.
Gone is its rude assault on body, mind;
The harshness to another half is shifted.

We’re stirred by Spring since life begins anew;
Hope is fulfilled with the most lovely view.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nxHKzle/Woodland+flowers+in+spring ——————–

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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.
………………………..
Wind Asks

The breath of the morning is testing the leaves;
It’s whipping through trees as it wanders and weaves.
It blows like a whistle; it blasts like a horn;
It whispers; it tickles; it moves branch and thorn. 

The sparrows that perch in the trees as they dance
All wonder in whispers how likely the chance
That leaves, little leaves, have now learned so they know
Why wind with wild whistling does over them blow? 

The answer’s a question the wind has in mind,
And blowing is how it the answer will find.
It’s wanting to know of the leaves: fall or spring?
And blowing will find if they fall or they cling.

 

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photo by Hanspeter Klasser at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/ojvEN4q/forest+in+autumn+4

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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The Yellow Violet

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know,
The yellow violet’s modest bell
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them – but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I’ll not o’er look the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.

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       St. Patrick’s Day

Today, in Texas in the hills,
   We almost had a freeze.
But there were tiny coats of green
   On all the Irish trees.

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photo by coolhewitt23 at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oqn5Q8Y/St.+Patrick%27s+Day+background

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

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