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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343745" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Spring Day</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bath</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus<br>in the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water<br>in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water<br>into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance,<br>and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger<br>sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light<br>in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water,<br>the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost<br>too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day.<br>I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is<br>a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Breakfast Table</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white.<br>It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells,<br>and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side,<br>draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot,<br>hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl - and my eyes<br>begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts.<br>Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask.<br>A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream,<br>flutter, call: 'Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!' Coffee steam rises in a stream,<br>clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight,<br>revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral<br>up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam.<br>The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Walk</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles,<br>with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet<br>clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates.<br>The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters<br>under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air,<br>but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street,<br>and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind<br>flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap,<br>the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers<br>on her hat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay<br>with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over<br>the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and narcissus.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille' against the blue sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time.<br>Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white dust,<br>leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind,<br>jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible,<br>shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine<br>tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high,<br>and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Midday and Afternoon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still<br>brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people<br>lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light<br>in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars,<br>darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors,<br>murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts,<br>blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes<br>on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against<br>the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust,<br>thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me,<br>reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging,<br>plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic insteps.<br>A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press.<br>They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the shop-windows,<br>putting out their contents in a flood of flame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Night and Sleep</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out<br>along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow,<br>and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream<br>in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means<br>a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong<br>sliver of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street.<br>A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building,<br>but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees<br>and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean,<br>it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers<br>in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see<br>the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems.<br>I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops<br>I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city,<br>glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing<br>for the Spring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams<br>into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters<br>queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses<br>down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky<br>when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they are like<br>tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343745" data-title="Spring Day de Amy Lowell" data-description="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 wate..."></div>
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