En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Spring

See how new green shoots
and branches and leaves
and flowers appear
and the green grass
rises everywhere,
the gods had set a part
of Eden here.

Hear the birds
sing and cheer
and see them fly past
and follow the white-hot sun
while the rays comes to stay
for a longer time.

Smell the first rain
and wild flowers
in the fields
and get thrilled
by the sweet scent
that every flower brings

Abide with me
as the trees dress fit
for a royal wedding
and new life
appears from where it hides
and realise that Spring
is a living thing.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Dying Child

He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.

Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?

He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.

When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.

poem by John Clare
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In The Shade Of The Green Wood

In the shade of the green wood
The holly does grow,
While in soft rays of sunlight
The wild roses glow,
And I smell their sweet perfume
That gently floats by,
Past trees strong and mighty
That reach to the sky,
The pathway of gold autumn
Leaves still remain,
As I walk through the green wood again.

In the shade of the green wood
This bright sunny morn,
That's so cool in the shadows
A new day is born,
All the birds in the treetops
Are singing for me,
Sweet songs of the summer
Which fill me with glee,
And know from its beauty
I never shall part,
For the green wood does live in my heart.

In the shade of the green wood
A soft gentle breeze,
Now caresses the branches
And whispers through trees,
A sound reassuring
Shall carry me to,
All the scenes that exist
In each marvellous view,
It's here that my spirit
Shall always now stay,
And the green wood is guiding my way.

poem by Andrew Blakemore
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In the Highveld

(after Toon van den Heever)

I

In the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open
where rock rabbits, steenbok and baboons revel,
you see the wind skipping through the long grass
and you can still believe in God and His angels,

the rain gathers with thunder
where through the open spaces you can see far into the veldt,
you are astounded by the beauty of flowering proteas
and you still can realize your dependence

but when the city’s rumbling becomes too much,
the jacarandas start flowering in the streets,
buildings of steel and concrete start to curtail you,
you dream about wild flowers appearing everywhere

and it’s the places of a child that you miss,
in the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance.

II

In the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance
and the wind rollicks through the grass
the sky is pure blue and you can look for hours at it,
there you can find freedom from the city’s imprisonment.

When the wind rustles through the march you loose all sadness,
you see the African red-knobbed coot gathering her chickens,
you can hear the finches’ caper, branches full together,
you see every great small happening,

how wild flowers of every imaginable colour
grow as if planted in secret
(and I will go back if I only could)
where I can find some serenity, can have peace
where I will know about God’s heritage;
there the sun shines.

III

There the sun shines
where proteas and aloes flower wildly,
bright up to the horizon
coming out of the earth by themselves

with violets growing purple-blue right through the marsh,
with daisies stretching white over the veldt,
with long tailed widow birds flapping their wings
and the earth is covered with long green grass.

To this piece of ground I am trapped
even when my days are drawing to their end,
it goes even to my heart’s deepest yearning,
with every plant, bush and flower

as it’s bought with sweat and blood,
nobody can strip it from me.

IV

Nobody can strip it from me,
I have to go back to where the sun hangs golden
in the sapphire heaven, I have got to strip the city from me
(but if I only could)

the big desire stays and out of the town I must go
away from the ambulance and police sirens that cuts through everything,
trains whistling almost endlessly,
I have got to go to where only the frog choir and crickets sing.

Again I have got to get the smell of sugar bushes,
smell the rain, spring, summer and even autumn
I must get away from a world where tinned pleasure seduces,
where people use other people for their own pleasure.

I want to stand in the green fields of grass,
when the day dies.

V

When the day dies
letting its last rays fall,
with the birds flying to their nests
darkness comes to this part of the universe,

the doves at dusk still call to each other
as if their voices bind them in the darkness,
you can see the moon sailing golden-yellow through the sky,
you are sometimes blinded by the bright rays,

the city lights glitter far away
in all the colours of the rainbow,
here you want to bond your life to a loved one,
catching her moments long in your eye

when people come together here,
the madness of the human existence is exorcised.

VI

The madness of the human existence is exorcised
even in later years past your own youth,
when you are in the world that your heart desires,
you want to invite the new spring to stay with you

shaking out that which bothers and torments to the early summer wind,
feeling the effervescence of new life,
blinded by the sun you want to find healing
while the whole of spring washes through your life

with the light, air, the flowers, birds and sun splashing down
as if your autumn is only in your imagination,
you want to wash yourself clean from old age,
you are searching for exorcism from the darkness

there are still flowers sprouting out everywhere,
when the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees.

VII

When the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees
with branches being full of coloured leaves,
the sun is still heating as in summer
before the first biting winds begin to whine.

I see opened pod upon opened pod
that lays brown scorched without any signs of seeds,
the dull blue sky has clouds in milky white,
trees become a wild watermill

that is halfway skeleton, halfway still carrying leaves,
afternoons are still drawn out
and even when days earlier end in winter
it’s a time without equal,
as if the summer can last forever,
in the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Simply Living / California Grass

Fields of dark green grass
Getting sunburned in the summer.
The green turns brown, then
Bleached white gold.

The Spring brings rain;
The smell of new life
The gold turns green again
Its life seems brand new.

Grass lives so simply,
Changing with the weather.
Too bad that's not true
For people like me and you.

Simply living seems so much better
Than the way people do.

poem by Tom O'Connor
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Cadences

I
(MINOR)

THE ANCIENT memories buried lie,
And the olden fancies pass;
The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and fly,
And die as the April cowslips die,
That scatter the bloomy grass.

All dead, my dear! And the flowers are dead,
And the happy blossoming spring;
The winter comes with its iron tread,
The fields with the dying sun are red,
And the birds have ceas’d to sing.

I trace the steps on the wasted strand
Of the vanish’d springtime’s feet:
Wither’d and dead is our Fairyland,
For Love and Death go hand in hand
Go hand in hand, my sweet!

II
(MAJOR)

OH, what shall be the burden of our rhyme,
And what shall be our ditty when the blossom’s on the lime?
Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness too long:
We will hail the royal summer with a golden-footed song!

O lady of my summer and my spring,
We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the brown sweet throstle sing,
And the low clear noise of waters running softly by our feet,
When the sights and sounds of summer in the green clear fields are sweet.

We shall see the roses blowing in the green,
The pink-lipp’d roses kissing in the golden summer sheen;
We shall see the fields flower thick with stars and bells of summer gold,
And the poppies burn out red and sweet across the corn-crown’d wold.

The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain;
There shall come no ghost of grieving for the past betwixt us twain;
But in the time of roses our lives shall grow together,
And our love be as the love of gods in the blue Olympic weather.

poem by John Howard Payne
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When The First Heat Comes

When the first heat comes, the winter starts to disappear
weeds and flowers appear everywhere,
fruit trees are flowering,
when the first signs of spring appears,
with the sun flowering in crimson

you are astounded by the many colours
of flowers dazzling glorious in sunshine,
birds sing before the sun rises,
when the first heat comes,

the last stripped branches has disappeared,
the sky becomes a cobalt blue curtain,
you are astounded
by the insects and birds that are gathering in joy,
are caught in the scent of jasmine,
when the first heat comes.

poem by Gert Strydom
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May Song

BIRDS in the green of my garden
Blackbirds and throstle and wren,
Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's
And so to your singing again!
Birds in my blossoming orchard,
Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark,
Preen your bright wings, little happy live things;
The May trees grow white in the park!

Birds in the leafy wet woodlands,
Cuckoo and nightingale brown,
Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground--
The rain on green leaves dripping down!
Fresh with the rain of the May-time,
Rich with the promise of June,
Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part,
Love, like a bird, sings in tune!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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What Spring Brings

I enjoy what Spring brings.
The freshness of the air,
Supplied by the budding of leaves on trees.
A warming of a breeze that once could freeze.
The brightness of flowers,
As extended daylight hours come.
This rebirth witnessed is welcomed.

I enjoy what Spring brings.
And what that means as Winter melts.
A commitment seems to be given,
To all living beings.
As Mother Nature delivers.
An evolution of beauty,
Slowly growing upon us to know.
How valuable we are to God.
And how this is bestowed.

I enjoy what Spring brings.
The singing of the birds.
The blue of the sky,
And the grass so green.
The laughter of children and the innocence of it all.
The presence of promise...
A remembered frost seemed to have stalled.

I enjoy what Spring brings.
Appreciating I do...
The giving Spring brings with its offerings.
The kind only this time Spring can bring!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Spring Song III

HERE'S the Spring-time, Sweet!
Earth's green gown is new,
Lambs begin to bleat,
Doves begin to coo,
Birds begin to woo
In the wood and lane;
Sweet, the tale is true
Spring is here again!

I have been discreet
All the winter through;
Now, before your feet,
Blossoms let me strew.
Flowers, as yet, are few;
Will my lady deign
Take this flower or two?
Spring is here again

Make the year complete,
Give the Spring her due!
All the flowers entreat,
All the song-birds sue.
'Twixt the green and blue
Let Love wake and reign,
Let me worship you--
Spring is here again!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Everything is going to be wet

Every day rain falls down
from the overcast grey sky
and lightning bolts
flash blue white
like the fingers
of the gods
caressing the earth
while the leaves of autumn
cover every tree
in auburn, yellow and brown.

Green leaves on the stems
of big pink hollyhocks
here and there
dip up and down
when hit by drops of rain
as if suddenly coming alive

and it’s going to be
a wet winter
and probably
not all that chilly
with rain falling
out of season.

The grass is green
and everything but trees
are growing
as if it’s still spring.

and flowers bloom
on geraniums, roses, hollyhocks,
lilies, irises and petunias
in colours ranging
from white, orange, yellow,
violet to red and blue
and without covering
everything is going
to be wet.

poem by Gert Strydom
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You Can't Have Everything

The Queensland sun shines early in the morning
And keeps on burning hotter through the day
And though the Parklands watered by the sprinklers
Through the pale green patches of brown through gray.

But I know of a Land of natural greeness
Where Spring doesn't often come till early May
Though birds from early April on nest building
In that green Country half a World away.

I close my eyes I hear the dipper singing
And wild flowers bloom along the mountain stream
And chaffinch pipes his happy notes to April
And grass is growing and fields look lush and green.

Here in the Gold Coast in deep south of Queensland
The lorikeets and noisy miners sing
They have only known the warmth of the sub tropics
Where Winter's warmer than the northern Spring.

In distant Land above the bracken mountain
The lark is piping in the morning sky
Till lost to view he soars towards gathering rain clouds
And singing ever singing as he fly.

In South Queensland the rain is always welcome
And sun shine all year round and wild birds sing
But I know of a Country green and wetter
Which goes to prove you can't have everything.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Spring: New Beginnings

I have always loved the heralding of spring,
When the spell of youth is cast upon everything.
Gardens everywhere awaken from their sleep,
As the sun, from behind the clouds, does peep.

Leafy green shoots begin to sprout.
Flowers begin to pop their heads out.
Yellow daffodils stand proud and tall,
But, sadly, are gone in no time at all.

The sweet smell of blossom on the trees,
Wafts down from above on the gentle breeze.
Buttercups and daises are abundant everywhere
And the buzz of flying insects fills the warm air.

The season heralds a bright new dawn.
Baby birds and animals are being born.
The days are beginning to get progressively longer
And the sun's rays are beginning to shine stronger.

There's a sense of hope at this time of year,
Bringing with it, some much needed cheer.
It's heartening to know that summer is around the corner,
When the weather will grow increasingly warmer.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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When Days Get Long

I

When summer days get extremely long
the sky becomes a much deeper hue,
a myriad of birds fill the cobalt blue,
constantly singing their gorgeous song

it is as if everything do belong
to the coming spring, are singing true
like some beautiful birds and insects do,
while colourful swarming in their great throng

over the gentle meadow and the valley
filling the tranquil grey evening sky
softly singing a sweet kind of medley
while in jubilance they still do fly
over fields of hay and fields of barley,
sunny day after sunny day pass by.

II

Sunny day after sunny day pass by
with almost a kind of smothering heat
the fields, the open veldt and dirt road lie
far to hot to tread with just bare feet.

Everything shimmers, the poplars that rears
like huge fingers pointing to the sun,
massive broad oak trees of many years
and grass and flowers where life has just begun

glitters in a new emerald green sheen,
the wind rustles things touching one by one
as if finding things where there had not been,
between huge black boulders rocks and stone

the sun blazes on every day the same,
I see the sun making wings of hot flame.

III

I see the sun making wings of hot flame
on the few white clouds in dazzling colours
and in the west there are some small wild game
drinking water while the evening hours

brings the white and blue stars out dazzling clear
with night predators in the pitch black sky
and some more wild game are drawing near,
I hear the hyenas laughing, wild dogs cry,

the growls of lions, the howling of jackals,
I get the smells of the earth and the bush,
I hear some leopards growling, their calls
that are where they are lying in ambush,

at night the predators are hunting prey,
making a living in the dying day.

IV

Making a living in the dying day
swarms of birds fly calling with flapping wings
poplars, cedars and many trees do sway
while the twilight is grey, full of life, brings

as if by some magic, all at play
flying leaves, bats insects and flying things
with a few that lonesome away stray,
most are flying to nests in trees that swings

and eventually places of rest receives
the many small things that are fluttering,
the wind settles among the moving leaves,
the numerous evening birds start to sing

until the full moon shines its silver rays,
when night fades slowly as on other days.

V

When night fades slowly as on other days,
man is still bound by nature and destiny
to the world in which he works and plays
as it probably will be to eternity.

The yellow sun, the cobalt blue heaven
is like it has been from its very birth
with its joyous bright splendour even
like any other day upon this earth

but a time will come when man will be free
from all death and all kinds of destruction
from heartache, the sorrows that he see
with a new amazing introduction

to a place that’s holy, pure and bright;
now suddenly it is silver twilight.

VI

Now suddenly it is silver twilight
and the sheer darkness of night flees away
before the coming new breaking day
with the blazing sheer redness of sunlight

constantly reflecting against the bright
unclouded sky open in its solid grey
with the red blossoming as if its to stay
and in the veldt guinea fowl flees in fright

while a small jackal laughs out its delight
and the few milling dark clouds do stray
before a strong wind as if in spite
and through bushes and grass rocking it plays
churning up eddies before going out of sight
while the hot sun rises with its golden rays.

VII

While the hot sun rises with its golden rays,
you come from a country where rivers meander
where the rain sieves down for many days
where some beautiful wild birds do wander

in lush overgrown tranquil water-meadows,
far away from the busy big city,
filled with thick green living hedgerows
where many bright wild flowers are pretty

but I still do wonder what you will see
in a land where vicious savage beasts
have no civility and do roam free
where the natives have very weird feasts,

where the flaming sun does spare no one,
when summer days get extremely long.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Green Thicket

All in a green thicket I heard a bird sing,
And blithe though his song was it made the tears spring,
To hear a bird sing as he swung on his spray,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.

All in a green thicket his song it did pour
That told of the Springs that shall come nevermore,
That sang of sweet blossoms, now faded and dry,
All in a green thicket in Aprils gone by.

All in a green thicket that morning in Spring,
I smelt the sharp scent of each young growing thing,
I smelt the sweet herbage all drowned with the dew,
And the time that's gone from me was with me anew.

All in a green thicket at break of the day
It was like the dear voice of a friend far away,
It was like the kind touch of a hand that I know,
And the smile and the tears of dead Aprils ago,

All in a green thicket one morning in Spring,
For to smell the young woodland and hear the bird sing,
Oh, long did I loiter and dream by the way,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.

poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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It is Spring Time

It is Spring Time

It is spring time.
I can smell it in the air.
I can smell the flowers.
I can smell the grass.
I can touch the grass.
I can touch and taste the vegetable growing in the garden.
The weather is changing.
The weather is warming up.
The trees are blossoming.
The flowers are blossoming.

It is spring time.
Easter has passed.
Beltane has passed.
Spring and May is here.
This is the time to tend to your garden and planted some flowers.
Some people pray to God to protect their garden.
Some people pray to Mother Nature for protect.
I do both and I thank God for this planet.

It is Spring Time.
The animals and bugs come out to play.
The frogs jump around the pond.
The wildflower comes out.
The sky is clean and blue.
The sun is shining.
The horses are running free.
The sunflowers are growing.
When seasons the earth also changes it is a beautiful way.
Nature is every where.

It is spring time.
There is rain and storm.
The trees have leaves and it arms.
The trees are ancient.
An apple falls down from the trees.
This is what thinks spring time is for me.
Spring time is beautiful.
Spring time is when nature is beautiful.

It is spring time.
Spring time is here.
The rabbits come out, and hop round.
The bees are collection honey for us.
The tulips are blossoming.
The roses are blossoming, and looking so beautiful.
The lavender is purple and bright.
Spring time is a time to celebrate.
Spring time is a time to clean our environment.

It is spring time.
Spring time is a time when rain falls.
Spring time is the time when the seasons changes.
Spring time is when the plants grow.
Spring time is my favorite season.
Spring time is the time to be happy.

It is spring time.

poem by Crystal Chown
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The Beautiful Azalea

The beautiful azalea is a woody shrub that never grows into a tree
But the pink flowers on the azalea are so beautiful to see
In the cool to warm days of October when Spring is in the air
And beautiful Mother Nature flowers on her green cloak wear,
How lovely the azalea in the cool shade of the trees
In her mass of pinkish flowers gently stirring in the breeze
Such a thing of natural beauty for to beautify the Spring
In the nice days of October when the nesting song birds sing,
In her tiny leaves of light green and her mass of bright pink flowers
The azalea she is blooming in the sunshine and Spring showers
But time it keeps on ticking and the years go quickly by
And how many more Octobers will i live for to enjoy?
The sight of the beautiful azalea in her pink flowers in the shade
A thing of such rare beauty by Nature only made.

poem by Francis Duggan
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This Affair Belongs to Spring

Sweet is the smell of trees.
Budding in the sunlight.
When Winter has gone...
And Spring begins to spread.
Creeping from a Winter unforgiving.

Green are the grapes on vines,
Growing in some gardens.
Lifted are blades of grass,
Surrounding flowers yet to bloom.

Making room for Spring,
Has got to have Winter whimpering.
So much laughter now has passed,
With holidays and memories to last.
But stored and packed to dust.

Cleaning up we must for Spring.
To witness beauty Spring can bring.
When we are in fresh air...
It is easier to leave the past alone.
Leave it there!
This affair belongs to Spring!
And Sing we do
To reunite
What this all means,
As Mother Nature brings new scenes!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In Spring

See how the trees and the osiers lithe
Are green bedecked and the woods are blithe,
The meadows have donned their cape of flowers,
The air is soft with the sweet May showers,
And the birds make melody:
But the spring of the soul, the spring of the soul,
Cometh no more for you or for me.

The lazy hum of the busy bees
Murmureth through the almond trees;
The jonquil flaunteth a gay, blonde head,
The primrose peeps from a mossy bed,
And the violets scent the lane.
But the flowers of the soul, the flowers of the soul,
For you and for me bloom never again.

poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Into The Last Month Of Winter

Into the last month of Winter and the wattles cloaked in yellow flowers in bloom
And pink flowers on the camellias and yellow flowers on the broom
And all through the night the white backed magpies sing
On the third week of August coming up to the Spring
On the third week of August in the Southern Hemisphere
One does have a sense that Spring is quite near
The paddocks and parklands are looking quite green
And fragile pink flowers on the fruit trees are seen
Into the third week of August and birds sing in the rain
And all through the night frogs sing in pond and drain
And in the calm of the night in the parkland nearby
The breeding spur wing plovers in their territory cry
And all through the night on the moonlit gum trees
The songs of the magpies carry in the breeze.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Nightingale

When grass grows green, and fresh leaves spring,
And flowers are budding on the plain,
When nightingales so sweetly sing,
And through the greenwood swells the strain,
Then joy I in the song and in the flower,
Joy in myself, but in my lady more;
All objects round my spirit turns to joy,
But most from her my rapture rises high.

poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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