The Shepherds Calendar - April
The infant april joins the spring
And views its watery skye
As youngling linnet trys its wing
And fears at first to flye
With timid step she ventures on
And hardly dares to smile
The blossoms open one by one
And sunny hours beguile
But finer days approacheth yet
With scenes more sweet to charm
And suns arrive that rise and set
Bright strangers to a storm
And as the birds with louder song
Each mornings glory cheers
With bolder step she speeds along
And looses all her fears
In wanton gambols like a child
She tends her early toils
And seeks the buds along the wild
That blossom while she smiles
And laughing on with nought to chide
She races with the hours
Or sports by natures lovley side
And fills her lap with flowers
Tho at her birth north cutting gales
Her beautys oft disguise
And hopfull blossoms turning pales
Upon her bosom dies
Yet ere she seeks another place
And ends her reign in this
She leaves us with as fair a face
As ere gave birth to bliss
And fairey month of waking mirth
From whom our joys ensue
Thou early gladder of the earth
Thrice welcom here anew
With thee the bud unfolds to leaves
The grass greens on the lea
And flowers their tender boon recieves
To bloom and smile with thee
The shepherds on thy pasture walks
The first fair cowslip finds
Whose tufted flowers on slender stalks
Keep nodding to the winds
And tho thy thorns withold the may
Their shades the violets bring
Which childern stoop for in their play
As tokens of the spring
The time when daiseys bloom divine
With thy calm hours begun
And crowflowers blazing blooms are thine
Bright childern of the sun
Along thy woodlands shaded nooks
The primrose wanly comes
And shining in thy pebley brooks
The horse bleb gaily blooms
The long lost charm of sparkling dew
Thy gentle birth recieves
And on thy wreathing locks we view
The first infolding leaves
And seeking firstling buds and flowers
The trials of thy skill
Were pastimes of my infant hours
And so they haunt me still
To see thy first broad arum leaves
I lovd them from a child
And where thy woodbines sprouting weaves
I joyd to trace the wild
And jocund as thy lambs at play
I met the wanton wind
With feelings that have passd away
Whose shadows cling behind
Those joys which childhood claims its own
Woud they were kin to men
Those treasures to the world unknown
When known-was witherd then
But hovering round our growing years
To gild cares sable shroud
Their spirit thro the gloom appears
As suns behind a cloud
As thou first met my infant eyes
When thro thy fields I flew
Whose distance where they meet the skyes
Was all the worlds I knew
That warmth of fancys wildest hours
Which made things kin to life
That heard a voice in trees and flowers
Has swoond in reasons strife
Sweet month thy pleasures bids thee be
The fairest child of spring
And every hour that comes with thee
Comes some new joy to bring
The trees still deepen in their bloom
Crass greens the meadow lands
And flowers with every morning come
As dropt by fairey hands
The field and gardens lovley hours
Begin and end with thee
For whats so sweet as peeping flowers
And bursting buds to see
What time the dews unsullied drops
In burnishd gold distills
On crocus flowers unclosing tops
And drooping daffodills
Each day with added glorys come
And as they leave the night
Put on the roseys lovley bloom
And blushes with delight
And suns that wait their welcome birth
With earlier haste pursue
Their journeys to this lower earth
To free their steps from dew
To see thee come all hearts rejoice
And warms with feelings strong
With thee all nature finds a voice
And hums a waking song
The lover views thy welcome hours
And thinks of summer come
And takes the maid thy early flowers
To tempt her steps from home
Along each hedge and sprouting bush
The singing birds are blest
And linnet green and speckld thrush
Prepare their mossy nest
On the warm bed thy plain supplys
The young lambs find repose
And mid thy green hills basking lies
Like spots of lingering snows
Young things of tender life again
Enjoys thy sunny hours
And gosslings waddle ocr the plain
As yellow as its flowers
Or swim the pond in wild delight
To catch the water flye
Where hissing geese in ceasless spite
Make childern scamper bye
Again the fairey tribes pursue
Their pleasures on the plain
And brightend with the morning dew
Black circles shine again
And on its superstitious ground
Where flowers seem loath to dwell
The toadstools fuzzy balls abound
And mushrooms yearly swell
The seasons beautys all are thine
That visit with the year
Beautys that poets think divine
And all delight to hear
Thy latter days a pleasure brings
That gladden every heart
Pleasures that come like lovley things
But like to shades depart
Thy opend leaves and ripend buds
The cuckoo makes his choice
And shepherds in thy greening woods
First hears the cheering voice
And to thy ripend blooming bowers
The nightingale belongs
And singing to thy parting hours
Keeps night awake with songs
With thee the swallow dares to come
And primes his sutty wings
And urgd to seek their yearly home
Thy suns the Martin brings
And lovley month be leisure mine
Thy yearly mate to be
Tho may day scenes may brighter shine
Their birth belongs to thee
I waked me with thy rising sun
And thy first glorys viewd
And as thy welcome hours begun
Their sunny steps pursued
And now thy sun is on the set
Like to a lovley eve
I view thy parting with regret
And linger loath to leave
Thou lovley april fare thee well
Thou early child of spring
Tho born where storms too often dwell
Thy parents news to bring
Yet what thy parting youth supplys
No other months excell
Thou first for flowers and sunny skyes
Sweet april fare thee well.
poem by John Clare
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Averil
I love thee, April! for thou art the Spring
When Spring is Summer; and thy wayward showers,
Sudden and short, soothly do bring May flowers,
Thus making thee a harbinger, whose wing
Bright jewels, Nature's rarest choice, doth fling
O'er dewy-glistening brakes and banks and bowers,
To ravish loving eyes through longer hours
When Winter is a dead forgotten thing.
Such promise dost thou give of Summer bloom;--
But thine own sunshine hast thou, thine own light;
And fair are April flowers, April leaves--
Fairer to eyes aching from Winter's gloom
Than late-blown joys of May, that greet the sight
When drunk with gladness it from thee receives.
poem by Thomas MacDonagh
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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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To The Cuckoo
O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! Shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of Sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
poem by William Wordsworth
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A Birthday
The love within my heart that dwells
Knows nought of days or hours;
I hear thee in the Christmas bells,
I feel thee in the vernal showers;
And thy breath is blent with the wandering scent
Of the summer fruits and flowers.
And yet this morn my blood is stirred
With more than wonted glow;
Thy absent voice is strangely heard,
Thy spells upon me stronger grow;
And my spirit sips from unseen lips
That can be but thine, I know.
For thou wast born upon this day,
When I was but a child,
Ere winter frosts were ta'en away,
Ere primroses peeped out and smiled;
Ere the snows were reft from the sheltering cleft,
And the winds were high and wild.
Thus early unto me wast thou
An earnest of the spring;
Of happy birds upon the bough,
And sweet trees blossoming;
Of all that is fair upon earth, in air,
And the streams that bound and sing.
I wonder what the world was like
Before thou didst appear-
Did young lambs skip o'er mound and dyke?
Did throstles warble loud and clear?
And were sea and sky as deep and high
As they are now thou art here?
It were a dreary world indeed
To me, wert thou away;
The night no tumults sweet would breed,
No tranquil dalliance the day;
And though earth should fling all that Fame can bring
At my feet, I would not stay.
So, though sore-severed still we be,
Here, helpful one, remain!
Through travels long a bourne to me,
A crowning joy 'mid crushing pain;
An abiding star when the storm-waves jar,
And a rainbow 'mid the rain.
And fear not, sweet, but love like ours
Will keep us ever young:
No prey to the corroding hours,
No feast for the malignant tongue,
But as firm and fond in the years beyond
As when first we clasped and clung.
Age cannot touch such charms as thine;
My heart defies the sun:
Both shall but glow yet more divine,
His course more oft as he may run:
Till we spurn the earth for that second birth,
When we twain shall be only one.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Poet's Song To His Wife
HOW many summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind
When ’t bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours.
Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves;
Some fears,—a soft regret
For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget;—
All else is flown!
Ah!—With what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!
Look, where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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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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The Birth of Spring (Constanza)
April graces us with showers,
As cold snows melt, their wintry scene
Is changed to many shades of green.
From tender shoots, soon, Spring flowers.
Apollo's face is golden fair....
The scent of spring is in the air.
As blossoms float down from bowers
When gusts of April breezes blow,
They spread below like golden snow.
I delight and watch for hours,
For truly at this time of year
I feel God's presence dwelling here.
Blessed and touched by divine powers.
The joy of springtime here on Earth
Is felt with every flower's birth.
April graces us with showers,
From tender shoots, soon, Spring flowers.
As blossoms float down from bowers
I delight and watch for hours,
Blessed and touched by divine powers.
poem by Connie Marcum Wong
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Breathings Of Spring
Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs; bring back
The love that I have lost!
WHAT wak'st thou, Spring? sweet voices in the woods,
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute;
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute,
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,
Ev'n as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring! the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispery shade,
And happy murmurs, running thro' the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters they too hear thy call,
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.
And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And pencilling the wood-anemone;
Silent they seem yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring!
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art,
What wak'st thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much! we know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet rous'd by thee,
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see!
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet
Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these?
Vain longings for the dead! why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs?
Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air,
Breath'd by our lov'd ones there!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Bring Flowers
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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These Little Ones
'What of the garden I gave?'
God said to me;
'Hast thou been diligent to foster and save
The life of flower and tree?
How have the roses thriven,
The lilies I have given,
The pretty scented miracles that Spring
And Summer come to bring?
'My garden is fair and dear,'
I said to God;
'From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.
Green-trimmed its sod.
The rose is red and bright,
The lily a live delight;
I have not lost a flower of all the flowers
That blessed my hours.'
'What of the child I gave?'
God said to me;
'The little, little one I died to save
And gave in trust to thee?
How have the flowers grown
That in its soul were sown,
The lovely living miracles of youth
And hope and joy and truth?'
'The child's face is all white,'
I said to God;
'It cries for cold and hunger in the night:
Its little feet have trod
The pavement muddy and cold.
It has no flowers to hold,
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.'
'Thou fool!' God said.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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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 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 humple 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.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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In Memoriam
O FRIEND who passed away while flowers died,
Now that the land bursts into bloom again,
With vivid blossoms o'er the landscape wide,
Purple and white 'mongst, grasses golden-eyed,
In beauteous resurrection o'er the plain,—
My thoughts revert to thee, who liest still,
Under the pulsing, stirring, glowing earth;
Not rising with the lilac on the hill,
Not waking with the sunny daffodil,
Living and breathing with no second birth.
In these sweet days I dream I see thy grave,
A mockery of death, alive with flowers.
The delicate sprays and tender grasses wave,
Blue violets and the hardy crocus brave,
Wooed back to life by sunshine, dew, and showers.
I cannot deem that thou art lying there,
Asleep through all these fervent days of spring;
For I perceive thy spirit in the air,
Around me ever in my dream and prayer,
Enskied and hallowed by thy suffering.
When thou didst walk upon the earth before,
My trivial words and deeds alone were thine;
But now my holiest dreams are evermore
Blended with thoughts of thee, on that far shore,
Where thy pale, girlish face has grown divine.
Through the dark shadows thou must go alone;
And lo! thou hast a dauntless bravery,
A most majestic resignation shown;
A valiant patience, a faith not overthrown
By the dread terror of uncertainty.
The day had fled, from thee for evermore,
Thy soul was ebbing with the waning light,
And still thou asked, aweary and heartsore,
The same pathetic question o'er and o'er,—
'O, I am tired! will I go to-night?'
Aye, thou didst go,— and where? Thou knowest now.
Nature is innocent as well as fair;
Lillies, as well as amaranth, wreathe her brow.
She hath thy soul; because I cannot know
Where it may be, I feel it everywhere.
And thus the spring hath brought me flowers of worth.
O mourners, cease to weep o'er empty graves!
Open them all! no dead come trooping forth,
To fill with ghastly hosts the living earth;
Only the flowers bloom, the green grass waves.
Those ye laid low with solemn rites and tears,
Elude you; while ye weep, they all have flown.
And so I lay aside my doubts and fears;
My friend in day-dreams and at night appears,
And hovers near when I am most alone.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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I Will Not Let Thee Go
I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this?
Can it be summed up so,
Quit in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds,
As the soft south can blow
And toss the feathered seeds,
Then might I let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might;
Or were he reckoned slow
To bring the false to light,
Then might I let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
The stars that crowd the summer skies
Have watched us so below
With all their million eyes,
I dare not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
Have we chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?
I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content,
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
I cannot let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands:
Thou sayest farewell, and lo!
I have thee by the hands,
And will not let thee go.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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The Child’s Dream
Buried in childhood’s cloudless dreams, a fair-haired nursling lay,
A soft smile hovered round the lips as if still oped to pray;
And then a vision came to him, of beauty, strange and mild,
Such as may only fill the dreams of a pure sinless child.
Stood by his couch an angel fair, with radiant, glitt’ring wings
Of hues as bright as the living gems the fount to Heaven flings;
With loving smile he bent above the fair child cradled there,
While sounds of sweet seraphic power stole o’er the fragrant air.
“Child, list to me,” he softly said, “on mission high I’m here:
Sent by that Glorious One to whom Heav’n bows in loving fear;
I seek thee now, whilst thou art still on the threshold of earth’s strife,
To speak of what thou knowest not yet, this new and wond’rous life.
“Dost cling to it? dost find this earth a fair and lovely one?
Dost love its bright-dyed birds and flowers, its radiant golden sun?
I come to bid thee leave it all—to turn from its bright bloom,
And, having closed thine eyes in death, descend into the tomb.
“Thou shudderest, child! with restless gaze from me thou turn’st away;
’Mid summer flowers and singing birds wouldst thou remain to play;
Thou still wouldst bask in the dear light of thy fond father’s smile,
And on thy mother’s doating heart would linger yet awhile.
“’Tis well, sweet child, I blame thee not, but in spheres far away
Are blossoms lovelier far than those which tempt thee here to stay;
And if the love of parents fond with joy thy heart doth fill,
In those bright distant realms is One who loves thee better still!
“That One for thee in suffering lived—for thy sake, too, he died;
Oh! like the ocean is His love, as deep, my child, as wide.
Leave, then, this earth ere hideous sin thy spotless brow shall dim—
One struggling breath, one parting pang, and then thou’lt be with Him!”
A smile lit up the sleeper’s face, but soon it softly fled,
The rose leaf cheeks and lips grew wan—could it be the child was dead?
Yes, dead—and spared the ills of life, and in bright bliss above
The pure soul nestles in the light of God’s unbounded Love.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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A Cuckoo Song
Crowns are for kings to wear, sad crowns of gold
Over tired heads that ache, world--cares untold.
Not on thy happy brows, sweet bird of summer,
Set we such crowns to--day, thou Spring's new--comer.
Take from us, rather, thou these our wild posies.
April's and May's we bring, June's with its roses.
Nay and love's Cuckoo flowers, O child of glory!
Cuckoos thine own birds are; these be thy dowry.
Eve of our heart's shut field, need is we grieve thee,
Gone to a world more sweet where we must leave thee.
Russet--clad nightingales, tired of our chaunting,
Out in the dark we weep, our Queen--bird wanting.
Such is the fate of birds. Soon as the Spring comes
Vagrant they flit and fly. Lo! 'tis their King comes.
Endeth our night plaint only when, through the wild wood,
New born the day trips in, laughs as a child would.
O, then we too will laugh, join in the gay chime,
Run to thy marriage bells, birds of the day--time.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Farewell to Guernsey
Sarnia farewell! farewell thy rocky shore;
Far o'er the main I ne'er may see thee more;
Yet will I not regret thee—save thy flowers—
They well were worthy the immortal bowers
Which poets love to wreathe, and oft have sung.
Thine are the hues, which once o'er Eden flung
Their charm of fragrance—when our parents' gaze
First met in paradise—that holy maze
Of beauty and of love; thine island's pride
Is worthy of thee, thus with sea allied.
Thy roses bloom!—but where is the fair cheek?
The eye of eloquence in vain we seek
Mid Sarnia's daughters—and the graceful form
Dwells not with thee—thou isle begirt with storm!—
Save in thy gardens:—there the lily's grace,
Verbena's odour breathes—a hardy race—
The fuschia's bloom its pendant drops disclose,
While thousand plants with richest shading glow;
Camelias too their waxlike beauties spread,
Where orange-flowers their choicest pērfume shed;
And Nature, niggard to thy forest trees,
Fans e'en thy wild flowers with her softest breeze.
Farewell!—a long farewell!—no tear will start,
With thee I leave no fond, devoted heart;
And memory's tracery of bygone years,
And all that love still hopes, believes, and fears,
Is not with thee—child of old Ocean's foam!
The poet's heart is now—e'en now—at home.
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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Gentle Annie
Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie,
Like a flower thy spirit did depart;
Thou art gone, alas! like the many
That have bloomed in the summer of my heart.
Chorus
Shall we nevermore behold thee;
Never hear thy winning voice again --
When the Springtime comes, gentle Annie,
When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?
We have roamed and loved mid the bowers
When thy downy cheeks were in their bloom;
Now I stand alone mid the flowers
While they mingle their perfumes o'er thy tomb.
Chorus
Ah! the hours grow sad while I ponder
Near the silent spot where thou art laid,
And my heart bows down when I wander
By the streams and the meadows where we strayed.
Chorus
poem by Stephen C. Foster
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The Grave Of A Poetess
I stood beside thy lowly grave;
Spring-odours breath'd around,
And music, in the river-wave,
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun,
In the bright air glanc'd by,
And a glad murmur seem'd to run
Thro' the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough
That fring'd the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad–but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee,
Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world's vernal dawn.
Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have lov'd so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring,–
And thou wert pass'd away!
But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look'd ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What see'st thou then where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st–but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud, but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep!
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?–
Now peace the woman's heart hath found,
And joy the poet's eye.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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May-Day, 1837
I.
MAY-DAY is come!--While yet the unwillng Spring
Checks with capricious frown the opening year,
Onward, where bleak winds have been whispering,
The punctual Hours their ancient playmate bear;
But those who long have look'd for thee, stand by,
Like men who welcome back a friend bereaved,
And camnot smile, because his sadden'd eye
Doth mutely tell them how his soul is grieved.
Even thus too greet thine alter'd face to-day,
Thou friend in mourning garb!--chill, melancholy May!
II.
To thee the first and readiest smiles of Earth,
Lovely with life renew'd, were always given,--
To thee belong'd the sunshine and the mirth
Which bathed all Nature with a glow from Heaven,--
To thee the joy of Childhood's earnest heart,
His shouting song, and light elastic tread,
His brows high arch'd, and laughing lips apart,
Bright as the wreath that bound his rosy head.--
Thou wert of Innocence the holiday,
Thou garlanded and glad!--thou ever-blooming May!
III.
Yet will I not reproach thee for thy change:
Closed be the flower, and leafless be the tree!
Smile not as thou wert wont; but sad, and strange,
And joyless, let thy tardy coming be!
So shall I miss those infant voices less,
Calling each other through the garden bowers,
Meeting and parting in wild happiness,
Leading a light dance thro' the sunny hours;
Those little mirthful hearts, who, far away,
Breathe, amid cloud-capp'd hills, a yet more wintry May!
IV.
Ah, boys! your play-ground is a desert spot,
Revisited alone, and bathed with tears;
And where ye pass your May-day, knoweth not
The mother who hath watch'd your dawning years.
Mine is no more the joy to see ye come,
And deem each step hath some peculiar grace!
Yours is no more the mother's welcome home,
Smiling at each beloved, familiar face!
And I an thankfiul that this dreary May
Recals not, save by name, that brighter, happier day!
V.
I should have felt more mock'd, if there had been
More peace and sunshine round me,--had the grove,
Clad in transparent leaves of tender green,
Been full of murm'ring sounds of Nature's love;
I should have wept more bitterly beneath
The frail laburnum trees, so faint and fair,--
I should have sicken'd at the lilac's breath,
Thrown by the warm sun on the silent air;
But now, with stern regret I wend my way--
I know thee not,--thou cold, and unfamiliar May!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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O'Donohue's Mistress
Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,
Fair lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.
Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
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