English May
WOULD God your health were as this month of May
Should be, were this not England,—and your face
Abroad, to give the gracious sunshine grace
And laugh beneath the budding hawthorn-spray.
But here the hedgerows pine from green to grey
While yet May's lyre is tuning, and her song
Is weak in shade that should in sun be strong;
And your pulse springs not to so faint a lay.
If in my life be breath of Italy,
Would God that I might yield it all to you!
So, when such grafted warmth had burgeoned through
The languor of your Maytime's hawthorn-tree,
My spirit at rest should walk unseen and see
The garland of your beauty bloom anew.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Three Roads
There is a town in Ireland,
A little town I know;
Its girls have tender Irish eyes
Beneath their brows of snow;
And in the field around it
The Fairy Hawthorns grow.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The sweet brown thrushes sing.
And from that little city
Three roads forever run
And on those roads the people,
The father and the son,
The mother and the daughter,
Walk till the day is done.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The thrushes sadly sing.
One road runs to the seaport
Where stately vessels lie -
American, Australian -
The weeping exiles cry,
Farewell to Grave and Hearthstone!
Dear Ireland - good-bye!
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
'Farewell!' the thrushes sing.
One road it is a red, red road -
That road to England goes;
The battle-drums are sounding,
The trump of battle blows;
And Ireland's sons go forth to fight
Against Red England's foes.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And within her heart of green
The mournful thrushes sing.
One road it is a quiet road;
They travel it full slow,
Their eyes are filled with sorrow,
The silent folk who go
To where the Stones of Silence
Are shining, row on row.
O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And a Lady fair and grand,
And the thrushes sing the keen
Of the Dead - in Ireland.
poem by Victor James Daley
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The Caterpillar
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.
Down beneath grow dandelions,
Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses;
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
I eat and swallow and eat again.
Here come raindrops helter-skelter;
I munch and nibble unregarding:
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm.
When I’m old, tired, melancholy,
I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum
Close by, here on this lovely spray,
And die and dream the ages away.
Some say worms win resurrection,
With white wings beating flitter-flutter,
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?
Either way I’ll miss my share.
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A hungry, hairy caterpillar,
I crawl on my high and swinging seat,
And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.
poem by Robert Graves
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Across The Door
THE fiddles were playing and playing,
The couples were out on the floor;
From converse and dancing he drew me,
And across the door.
Ah! strange were the dim, wide meadows,
And strange was the cloud-strewn sky,
And strange in the meadows the corncrakes,
And they making cry!
The hawthorn bloom was by us,
Around us the breath of the south
White hawthorn, strange in the night-time
His kiss on my mouth!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Good Day Sunshine
Good Day Sunshine
LennonMcCartney
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
I need to laugh, and when the sun is out
I've got something I an laugh about
I feel good, in a special way
I'm in love and it's a sunny day
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
We take a walk, the sun is shining down
Burns my feet as they touch the ground
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Then we lie beneath a shady tree
I love her and she's loving me
She feels good, she know she's looking fine
I'm so proud to know that she is mine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
Good day sunshine
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love of Beauty
Who loves all beauty loves beyond that we see;
The gods give him a vision doubly blest;
He sees the bloom upon the hawthorn-tree,
But blossoms, too, that are not quite expressed.
He hears the music in the lyric rain,
The lark's enraptured notes that wake the dawn;
But far behind them one diviner strain
That is not uttered till the first is gone.
poem by Charles Hanson Towne
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A Song of the Country
Away from the roar and the rattle,
The dust and the din of the town,
Where to live is to brawl and to battle,
Till the strong treads the weak man down!
Away to the bonnie green hills
Where the sunshine sleeps on the brae,
And the heart of the greenwood thrills
To the hymn of the bird on the spray.
Away from the smoke and the smother,
The veil of the dun and the brown,
The push and the plash and the pother,
The wear and the waste of the town!
Away where the sky shines clear,
And the light breeze wanders at will,
And the dark pine-wood nods near
To the light-plumed birch on the hill.
Away from the whirling and wheeling,
And steaming above and below,
Where the heart has no leisure for feeling
And the thought has no quiet to grow.
Away where the clear brook purls,
And the hyacinth droops in the shade,
And the plume of the fern uncurls
Its grace in the depth of the glade.
Away to the cottage so sweetly
Embowered 'neath the fringe of the wood,
Where the wife of my bosom shall meet me
With thoughts ever kindly and good;
More dear than the wealth of the world,
Fond mother with bairnies three,
And the plump-armed babe that has curled
Its lips sweetly pouting for me.
Then away from the roar and the rattle
The dust and the din of the town,
Where to live is to brawl and to battle
Till the strong treads the weak man down.
Away where the green twigs nod
In the fragrant breath of the May,
And the sweet growth spreads on the sod,
And the blithe birds sing on the spray.
poem by John Stuart Blackie from Littell's Living Age, vol. 129
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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April
April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,
That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,
Every hue,
Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet
Flora’s feet,
Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast
Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
Buds and blooms,
Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers
Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast
With the blest
Birds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,
Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the Gods’ delight,
(From their height
They take the happy air beneath)
It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place
In the far-oft isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,
Glad to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,
Lily, violet, and rose
Plentiful in April fair,
To the air,
Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,
Singing in the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note
Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free
Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old
That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm
Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom
For perfume,
Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
That complete
Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise,
To these days,
Named with the glad name of Her
That from out the foam o’ the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
poem by Remy Belleau
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In The Green And Gallant Spring
IN the green and gallant Spring,
Love and the lyre I thought to sing,
And kisses sweet to give and take
By the flowery hawthorn brake.
Now is russet Autumn here,
Death and the grave and winter drear,
And I must ponder here aloof
While the rain is on the roof.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Seeking Beauty
Cold winds can never freeze, nor thunder sour
The cup of cheer that Beauty draws for me
Out of those Azure heavens and this green earth --
I drink and drink, and thirst the more I see.
To see the dewdrops thrill the blades of grass,
Makes my whole body shake; for here's my choice
Of either sun or shade, and both are green --
A Chaffinch laughs in his melodious voice.
The banks are stormed by Speedwell, that blue flower
So like a little heaven with one star out;
I see an amber lake of buttercups,
And Hawthorn foams the hedges round about.
The old Oak tree looks now so green and young,
That even swallows perch awhile and sing:
This is that time of year, so sweet and warm,
When bats wait not for stars ere they take wing.
As long as I love Beauty I am young,
Am young or old as I love more or less;
When Beauty is not heeded or seems stale,
My life's a cheat, let Death end my distress.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Cover Me
Let your arm’s cover me
And protect me
From the high part of the
Day
Your branches leafless in
In the winter''s sun
But, can I rest beneath
Your branches of skeleton
Frame.
Through the gusty wind
That blow so strong
Winter cold wind
Even thou the sunshine is
High
The color is gray
The moon is rising
With a icy smile
The hostile wind is
Blowing with vengeance
Looking for retribution
Will you
Cover me with your skeleton
Fingers
Hide me from that angry wind
Clashing with that frosty moon
Cold, freezing cold
I’ll make me a home within
The layer of your wood to keep
Me warm
Until spring blossom''s out and
All
Love bloom''s in may
To
Blossom in June and end in
July
Even the tree’s sprout’s out
Again to become anew
With bloom''s ablaze in the spring
A coming
Blossom with a beauty of a deep
Rich green hue
Cover me within your walls so my off
Springs may grow
Warm and cuddley my off spring''s
Grow for our new generation
Cover me from the icy angry wind
Blowing on me
On and around me
I don’t wanna freeze and snap, pop
And crack
I wanna to be cover and warm where
My wings will grow..
poem by Carolyn Sears
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Good Day Sunshine
Good day sunshine, good day sunshine, good day sunshine
I need to laugh and when the sun is out
I've got something i can laugh about
I feel good in a special way
I'm in love and it's a sunny day
Good day sunshine, good day sunshine, good day sunshine
We take a walk, the sun is shining down
Burns my feet as they touch the ground
Good day sunshine, good day sunshine, good day sunshine
Then we'd lie beneath the shady tree
I love her and she's loving me
She feels good, she knows she's looking fine
I'm so proud to know that she is mine.
Good day sunshine, good day sunshine, good day sunshine
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Welcome To The Month Of Mary
Oh! gladly do we welcome thee,
Fair pleasant month of May;
Month which we’ve eager longed to see,
Through many a wintry day:
And now with countless budding flowers,
With sunshine bright and clear—
To gild the quickly fleeting hours—
At length, sweet month, thou’rt here!
But, yet, we do not welcome thee
Because thy genial breath
Hath power our sleeping land to free
From winter’s clasp of death;
Nor yet because fair flowers are springing
Beneath thy genial ray;
And thousand happy birds are singing
All welcome to thee, May!
No, higher, nobler cause have we
These bright days to rejoice—
’Twas God ordained that thou should’st be
The loved month of our choice:
It is because thou hast been given
To honor her alone,
The ever gentle Queen of Heaven—
The mother of God’s son.
The blossoms that we joyous cull
By bank or silver stream;
The fragrant hawthorn boughs we pull,
Most sacred too, we deem:
For not amid our tresses we
Their op’ning buds will twine,
But garlands fair we’ll weave with care
For Mary’s lowly shrine.
And when the twilight shades descend
On earth, so hushed and still,
And the lone night bird’s soft notes blend
With breeze from glade and hill,
We seek her shrine with loving heart,
And, humbly kneeling there,
We linger long, loth to depart
From that sweet place of prayer!
Oh! who can tell with what gifts rare
Our Mother will repay
Their love who honor thus with care
Her own sweet month of May!
A grace for every flower they’ve brought
Or ’Ave, they have said;
And ev’ry pious, holy thought
Shall be by her repaid!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Life
Oh Life! I breathe thee in the breeze,
I feel thee bounding in my veins,
I see thee in these stretching trees,
These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains.
This stream of odours flowing by
From clover-field and clumps of pine,
This music, thrilling all the sky,
From all the morning birds, are thine.
Thou fill'st with joy this little one,
That leaps and shouts beside me here,
Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run
Through the dark woods like frighted deer.
Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes
Insect and bird, and flower and tree,
From the low trodden dust, and makes
Their daily gladness, pass from me--
Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground
These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain,
And this fair world of sight and sound
Seem fading into night again?
The things, oh LIFE! thou quickenest, all
Strive upwards toward the broad bright sky,
Upward and outward, and they fall
Back to earth's bosom when they die.
All that have borne the touch of death,
All that shall live, lie mingled there,
Beneath that veil of bloom and breath,
That living zone 'twixt earth and air.
There lies my chamber dark and still,
The atoms trampled by my feet,
There wait, to take the place I fill
In the sweet air and sunshine sweet.
Well, I have had my turn, have been
Raised from the darkness of the clod,
And for a glorious moment seen
The brightness of the skirts of God;
And knew the light within my breast,
Though wavering oftentimes and dim,
The power, the will, that never rest,
And cannot die, were all from him.
Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve
To see me taken from thy love,
Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve,
And weep, and scatter flowers above.
Thy little heart will soon be healed,
And being shall be bliss, till thou
To younger forms of life must yield
The place thou fill'st with beauty now.
When we descend to dust again,
Where will the final dwelling be
Of Thought and all its memories then,
My love for thee, and thine for me?
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Sonnet: Give Me A Heart Anew, O God
Give me a heart anew, O God, I pray;
The one I have is sinful and impure;
Forgive my sins once more, Lord show my way;
Just say one word, Thy grace will heal me sure.
Give me a heart anew, let me begin,
To walk the road, the way you want me to;
Let me never commit a mortal sin;
Give in to temptations, the devils woo.
Give a heart anew, O God, once more;
I promise to keep it sin free lifetime;
Opened, you have for me another door;
Let me not fail to make my life sublime.
Give me a heart anew, O God, again;
And give thy grace to keep it off sin's stain.
poem by John Celes
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New Year
WHITE year, white year,
Muffled soft in snow,
A diamond spray whose gems are gone
Before their grace we know,
A crystal-coated spray whose hours
Melt when looked upon,
Hoarfrost stars and hoarfrost flowers,
White year!
Green year, green year,
Sweet with sun and showers,
A windblown spray whose blossoms bright
Are the seven-colored hours,
A dancing spray whose leaves are days,
A spray whose leaves delight
In azure gleam and silver haze,
Green year!
New Year, new year
From rosy leaf to gold,
A shining spray on the Tree of Time
Where myriad sprays unfold,
A spray so fair that God may see
And gather it, bloom and rime,
To deck the doors of Eternity,
New Year!
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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The Ferry
DRAW close the curtains, and shut out
The spring's green glow and glitter;
The resurrection-life of spring
To me brings no fresh blossoming;
I'm wearied of the flowers about--
The London sparrows' twitter.
If I could dream--if I could see
Once more the slow smooth river,
The narrow path she used to tread,
The sunlight on her little head,
The white fire of the hawthorn tree--
But I shall see them never.
Only the boat in dreams I steer
Among the tufted rushes,
I see her white gown through the grass,
That thrills with love to feel her pass;
Only in dreams again I hear
Those unforgotten thrushes.
Sometimes in dreams I see her stand,
Her hand held out, and making
The sweet unreal so vivid seem,
I only know it is a dream
When I reach out to take her hand,
And find no hand for taking.
So once she stood; and I--too weak
To dare to say, 'I love her'--
I dropped her hand, and took the oar
And rowed her to the farther shore;
I had my chance, and did not speak,
And chances now are over.
How dark the room has grown!--yet no,
The sky is blue above me;
This is the boat--the hawthorn tree
Is showering blossoms down on me;
And she is here as long ago,
And she has learned to love me!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Midsummer
HERE! sweep these foolish leaves away,
I will not crush my brains to-day!
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!
Not that,--the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef
Its breath is heated;--I would swing
The broad gray plumes,--the eagle's wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.
Rain me sweet odors on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
Who knows it not,--this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretched with toil,--
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When Summer's seething breezes blow!
O Nature! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest,--
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!
So, curtained by a singing pine,
Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine,
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay
In sweeter music dies away.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Midsummer
HERE! sweep these foolish leaves away,
I will not crush my brains to-day!
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!
Not that,--the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef
Its breath is heated;--I would swing
The broad gray plumes,--the eagle's wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.
Rain me sweet odors on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
Who knows it not,--this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretched with toil,--
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When Summer's seething breezes blow!
O Nature! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest,--
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!
So, curtained by a singing pine,
Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine,
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay
In sweeter music dies away.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Mooni
AH, to be by Mooni now!
Where the great dark hills of wonder,
Scarred with storm and cleft asunder
By the strong sword of the thunder,
Make a night on morning’s brow!
Just to stand where Nature’s face is
Flushed with power in forest places—
Where of God authentic trace is—
Ah, to be by Mooni now!
Just to be by Mooni’s springs!
There to stand, the shining sharer
Of that larger life, and rarer
Beauty caught from beauty fairer
Than the human face of things!
Soul of mine from sin abhorrent
Fain would hide by flashing current
Like a sister of the torrent,
Far away by Mooni’s springs.
He that is by Mooni now,
Sees the water-sapphires gleaming
Where the River Spirit, dreaming
Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming
Under lute of leaf and bough!
Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is,
Psalms from unseen wildernesses
Deep amongst far hill-recesses—
He that is by Mooni now.
Yea, for him by Mooni’s marge
Sings the yellow-haired September
With the face the gods remember
When the ridge is burnt to ember,
And the dumb sea chains the barge!
Where the mount like molten brass is,
Down beneath fern-feathered passes,
Noonday dew in cool green grasses
Gleams on him by Mooni’s marge.
Who that dwells by Mooni yet,
Feels, in flowerful forest arches,
Smiting wings and breath that parches
Where strong Summer’s path of march is
And the suns in thunder set?
Housed beneath the gracious kirtle
Of the shadowy water myrtle,
Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle—
He is safe by Mooni yet!
Days there were when he who sings
(Dumb so long through passion’s losses)
Stood where Mooni’s water crosses
Shining tracts of green-haired mosses,
Like a soul with radiant wings;
Then the psalm the wind rehearses—
Then the song the stream disperses
Lent a beauty to his verses—
Who to-night of Mooni sings.
Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme!
Certain days are not above me,
Certain hearts have ceased to love me,
Certain fancies fail to move me
Like the affluent morning dream.
Head whereon the white is stealing,
Heart whose hurts are past all healing,
Where is now the first pure feeling?
Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme!
Sin and shame have left their trace!
He who mocks the mighty, gracious
Love of Christ, with eyes audacious,
Hunting after fires fallacious,
Wears the issue in his face.
Soul that flouted gift and Giver,
Like the broken Persian river,
Thou hast lost thy strength for ever!
Sin and shame have left their trace.
In the years that used to be,
When the large, supreme occasion
Brought the life of inspiration,
Like a god’s transfiguration
Was the shining change in me.
Then, where Mooni’s glory glances,
Clear diviner countenances
Beamed on me like blessed chances,
In the years that used to be.
Ah, the beauty of old ways!
Then the man who so resembled
Lords of light unstained, unhumbled,
Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembled
At the grand benignant gaze!
Now he shrinks before the splendid
Face of Deity offended,
All the loveliness is ended!
All the beauty of old ways!
Still to be by Mooni cool—
Where the water-blossoms glister,
And, by gleaming vale and vista,
Sits the English April’s sister
Soft, and sweet, and wonderful.
Just to rest beyond the burning
Outer world—its sneers and spurning—
Ah! my heart—my heart is yearning
Still to be by Mooni cool:
Now, by Mooni’s fair hill heads,
Lo, the gold green lights are glowing,
Where, because no wind is blowing,
Fancy hears the flowers growing
In the herby watersheds!
Faint it is—the sound of thunder
From the torrents far thereunder,
Where the meeting mountains ponder—
Now, by Mooni’s fair hill heads:
Just to be where Mooni is,
Even where the fierce fall races
Down august unfathomed places,
Where of sun or moon no trace is,
And the streams of shadow hiss!
Have I not an ample reason
So to long for—sick of treason—
Something of the grand old season,
Just to be where Mooni is?
poem by Henry Kendall
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Those Green Fields Of Kilmeedy
Those green fields of Kilmeedy I do remember still
They meet the gorse and bracken at the foot of Clara hill
A place of peace and beauty with mountains all around
Scarce touched by man's pollution where Nature's joys abound.
Even in summer in Kilmeedy the dawn comes with a chill
But skylark he is piping above the bracken hill
Through Spring and through the Summer he sings all through the day
And I fancy I can hear him o'er mountains far away.
The robin he is piping on flowering hawthorn tree
Across the miles of distance his music comes to me
And dunnock on the hedgerow and dipper in the stream
And song thrush piping gaily on ash by old bohreen.
All through the Spring and Summer the wildering flowers are seen
But green fields of Kilmeedy not always quite so green
In November and December the winds of Winter blow
And January and February bring frost and sleet and snow.
In mid March in Kilmeedy the first wildflowers appear
And weather still quite chilly though days of bloom are near
But April brings her blossoms and leaves behind her green
And May comes o'er the mountain the summer beauty queen.
Those green fields of kilmeedy I see them every day
And I hear the skylark piping o'er hillsides far away
And dunnock on the hedgerow and the dipper in the stream
And those green fields of Kilmeedy have never looked so green.
poem by Francis Duggan
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