Daffodils
Fathered by March, the daffodils are here.
First, all the air grew keen with yesterday,
And once a thrush from out some hollow gray
On a field’s edge, where whitening stalks made cheer,
Fluted the last unto the budding year;
Now that the wind lets loose from orchard spray
Plum bloom and peach bloom down the dripping way,
Their punctual gold through the wet blades they rear.
Oh, fleet and sweet! A light to all that pass
Below, in the cramped yard, close to the street,
Long-stemmed ones flame behind the palings bare,
The whole of April in a tuft of grass.
Scarce here, soon will it be—oh, sweet and fleet!—
Gone like a snatch of song upon the stair.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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Jennifer’s Lad
SWEET Jennifer came calling me
Along the shining beach.
'There's green upon the hawthorn tree
There's bloom upon the peach.
O, April's found the upland larch,
The hazel in the hollow,'–
But louder was the snare-drum with it's 'March, march, march !'
And clearer called the bugle, 'Will you follow ?'
Young Jennifer came seeking me
With love upon her lips.
'O, all kind angels keep the sea
And fortune guard the ships.
The Autumn winds have rent the larch,
The south has won the swallow,'–
But clearer beat the snare-drum with it's 'March, march, march !'
And sweeter sang the bugle, 'Will you follow ?'
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush
The grey shrike thrush on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October eve made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again
And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the gray thrush pipes his notes of joy.
I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry? .
Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'? .
And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to the ear.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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 Little Peach
A little peach in the orchard grew,--
A little peach of emerald hue;
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,
It grew.
One day, passing that orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue--
Them two.
Up at that peach a club they threw--
Down from the stem on which it grew
Fell that peach of emerald hue.
Mon Dieu!
John took a bite and Sue a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,--
Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue.
Too true!
Under the turf where the daisies grew
They planted John and his sister Sue,
And their little souls to the angels flew,--
Boo hoo!
What of that peach of the emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?
Ah, well, its mission on earth is through.
Adieu!
1880.
poem by Eugene Field
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A Haunting Memory
Wild rockets blew along the lane;
The tall white gentians too were there;
The mullein stalks were brave again;
Of blossoms was the bramble bare;
And toward the pasture bars below
The cows went by me, tinkling slow.
Straight through the sunset flew a thrush,
And sang the only song he knew,
Perched on a ripening elder bush;
(Oh, but to give his song its due!)
Sang it, and ceased, and left it there
To haunt bush, blade, and golden air.
Oh, but to make it plain to you!
My words were wrought for grosser stuff;
To give that lonely tune its due,
Never a word is sweet enough;
A thing to think on when ’twas past,
As is the first rose or the last.
The lad, driving his cows along,
Strode whistling through the windy grass;
The little pool the shrubs among
Lay like a bit of yellow glass;
A window in the farmhouse old,
Turned westward, was of glaring gold.
I have forgotten days and days,
And much well worth the holding fast;
Yet not the look of those green ways,
The bramble with its bloom long past,
The tinkling cows, the scent, the hush—
Still on the eider sings that thrush.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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April Flower
Bloom for me,
My April flower.
Show your beauty,
I'll take a gander.
The wind scatters your scent
Giving me the feeling of heaven.
You're the perfection i've dreamt,
The one that i've chosen.
Bloom for me,
My April Flower,
And let me see,
Your petals that matches no other.
I know you're not mine
And you did not grew for me
I can only see you again this time
Unable to resist fate's cruelty.
Bloom for me,
My April Flower,
Though we're not destined to be,
Stay in my heart and take shelter.
In my heart, you will not wilt,
You will eternally bloom..
Even if i am burdened by this guilt,
and love is my certained doom.
Bloom for me for the last time,
At least i can call this moment mine
Ignore my reasons that doesn't rhyme,
Show me your beauty that i can't define.
Bloom..for all eternity..April Flower.
poem by John Paul Ang
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush Singing In The Rain
The grey thrush sing on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October evening made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again.
And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the grey thrush pipes his notes of joy.
I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry?
Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family?
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'.
And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day?
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to my ears.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To My Brothers
O BROTHERS, who must ache and stoop
O’er wordy tasks in London town,
How scantly Laura trips for you—
A poem in a gown!
How rare if Grub-street grew a lawn!
How sweet if Nature’s lap could spare
A dandelion for the Strand,
A cowslip for Mayfair!
But here, from immaterial lyres,
There rings in easy confidence
The blackbird’s bright philosophy
On apple-spray or fence:
For ploughmen wending home from toil
Some patriot thrush outpours his lay,
And voices, wildly eloquent,
The diary of his day.
These living lyrics you may hear
Remembering the lane’s romance,
All hung in wicker heels to chirp
Thin ghosts of utterance:
But where the gusts of liberty
Make Ragged Robin wisely bend,
They quicken hedgerows with their song,
Melodiously unpenned.
If souls of mighty singers leave
The vacant body to its hush,
Does Shelley linger in the lark,
Or Keats possess the thrush?
The end is undecaying doubt,
And in some blackbird’s bosom still
Great Tennyson may sweeten eve
And whistle on the hill.
Come, brothers, to this clean delight,
And watch the velvet-headed tit.
Here ’s honest sorrel in the grass
And sturdy cuckoo-spit:
What shepherds hear you shall not miss,
And at deliverance of dawn
Shall see a miracle of bloom
Across the sparkling lawn.
The forest musically begs
To fan you with its leafy love;
Oh, fall asleep upon this moss
Entreated by the dove!
Here shall that sweet Conservative,5
Dear Mother Nature, lend to you
Her lovely rural elements
Beneath the primal blue.
O brothers, who must ache and stoop
O’er wordy tasks in London town,
How scantly Laura trips for you—
A poem in a gown!
How good if Fleet-street grew a lawn!
How sweet if garden-plots could spare
A bed of cloves to scent the Strand,
A pansy for Mayfair!
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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The rock-a-by lady
The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street
Comes stealing; comes creeping;
The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet -
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
When she findeth you sleeping!
There is one little dream of a beautiful drum -
"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;
There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,
And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
And a trumpet that bloweth!
And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams
With laughter and singing;
And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,
And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,
The fairies go winging!
Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?
They'll come to you sleeping;
So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,
With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
Comes stealing; comes creeping.
poem by Eugene Field
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Mild is the Parting Year
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Spring in the South
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings;
Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling,
See how the pine-wood grows alive with wings;
Blue-jays fluttering, yodeling and crying,
Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass,
Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,--
Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass?
Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing,
Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn;
Red are the hill-sides of the early ploughing,
Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn.
Earth seems asleep still, but she's only feigning;
Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest.
Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining
Jove's golden shower into Danae's breast!
Now on the plum the snowy bloom is sifted,
Now on the peach the glory of the rose,
Over the hills a tender haze is drifted,
Full to the brim the yellow river flows.
Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten,
Greener than emeralds shining in the sun.
Who has wrought the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen!
The mocking-bird is singing Spring has begun.
Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!
All of his heart he pours into his lay,--
"Love, love, love, and pure delight of living:
Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!"
Fair in your face I read the flowery presage,
Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth:
Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,--
Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Memory
When I was young my heart and head were light,
And I was gay and feckless as a colt
Out in the fields, with morning in the may,
Wind on the grass, wings in the orchard bloom.
O thrilling sweet, my joy, when life was free
And all the paths led on from hawthorn-time
Across the carolling meadows into June.
But now my heart is heavy-laden. I sit
Burning my dreams away beside the fire:
For death has made me wise and bitter and strong;
And I am rich in all that I have lost.
O starshine on the fields of long-ago,
Bring me the darkness and the nightingale;
Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home,
And silence; and the faces of my friends.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Home Thoughts, From Abroad
Oh, to be in England
Now that April 's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
poem by Robert Browning from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When April Comes!
When April comes with softly shining eyes,
And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair,
Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies,
And every day will bring some sweet surprise,--
The swallows will come swinging through the air
When April comes!
When April comes with tender smile and tear,
Dear dandelions will gild the common ways,
And at the break of morning we will hear
The piping of the robins crystal clear--
While bobolinks will whistle through the days,
When April comes!
When April comes, the world so wise and old,
Will half forget that it is worn and grey;
Winter will seem but as a tale long told--
Its bitter winds with all its frost and cold
Will be the by-gone things of yesterday,
When April comes!
poem by Virna Sheard
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Awake! Awake!
``Awake, awake, for the Springtime's sake,
March daffodils too long dreaming;
The lark is high in the spacious sky
And the celandine's stars are gleaming.
The gorse is ablaze, and the woodland sprays
Are as purple as August heather,
The buds unfurl, and mavis and merle
Are singing duets together.
``The rivulets run, first one by one,
Then meet in the swirling river,
And on out-peeping roots the sun-god shoots
The shafts of his golden quiver.
In the hazel copse the thrush never stops
Till with music the world seems ringing,
And the milkmaid hale, as she carries her pail,
Goes home to the dairy, singing:
``And the swain and his sweet in the love-lanes meet,
And welcome and face each other,
Till he folds her charms in his world-wide arms,
With kisses that blind and smother.''
Then the daffodils came, aflame, aflame,
In orchard, and garth, and cover,
And out April leapt, first smiled, then wept,
And longed for her May-day lover.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Beds of Fleur-de-Lys
HIGH-LYING, sea-blown stretches of green turf,
Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea,
Low curve on curve spread far to the cool sky,
And, curving over them as long they lie,
Beds of wild fleur-de-lys.
Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far,
Breaking the green like islands in the sea;
Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend
Dwindling over the horizon’s end,—
Wild beds of fleur-de-lys.
The light keen wind streams on across the lifts,
Their wind of western springtime by the sea;
The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her
Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir
In beds of fleur-de-lys.
And here and there across the smooth, low grass
Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea;
And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside,
For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,—
The beds of fleur-de-lys.
poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman
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The Peach Tree On The Southern Wall
The peach tree on the southern wall
Has basked so long beneath the sun,
Her score of peaches great and small
Bloom rosy, every one.
A peach for brothers, one for each,
A peach for you and a peach for me;
But the biggest, rosiest, downiest peach
For Grandmamma with her tea.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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In The Valley
Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring
To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,
“On the wings of the tempest take wing,
And leave me the valleys, and go.”
And, straightway, the streams were unchained,
And the frost-fettered torrents broke free,
And the strength of the winter-wind waned
In the dawn of a light on the sea.
Then a morning-breeze followed and fell,
And the woods were alive and astir
With the pulse of a song in the dell,
And a whisper of day in the fir.
Swift rings of sweet water were rolled
Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew,
And the green, and the white, and the gold,
Were wedded with purple and blue.
But the lips of the flower of the rose
Said, “where is the ending hereof?
Is it sweet with you, life, at the close?
Is it sad to be emptied of love?”
And the voice of the flower of the peach
Was tender and touching in tone,
“When each has been grafted on each,
It is sorrow to live on alone.”
Then the leaves of the flower of the vine
Said, “what will there be in the day
When the reapers are red with my wine,
And the forests are yellow and grey?”
And the tremulous flower of the quince
Made answer, “three seasons ago
My sisters were star-like, but since,
Their graves have been made in the snow.”
Then the whispering flower of the fern
Said, “who will be sad at the death,
When Summer blows over the burn,
With the fierceness of fire in her breath?”
And the mouth of the flower of the sedge
Was opened to murmur and sigh,
“Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge
Of the nightfall, and falter, and die.”
poem by Henry Kendall
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Sweet Wild April
O sweet wild April
Came over the hills,
He skipped with the winds
And he tripped with the rills;
His raiment was all
Of the daffodils.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April
Came down the lea,
Dancing along
With his sisters three:
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
On pastoral quill
Came piping in moonlight
By hollow and hill,
In starlight at midnight,
By dingle and rill.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Where sweet wild April
His melody played,
Trooped cowslip, and primrose,
And iris, the maid,
And silver narcissus,
A star in the shade.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Dipped down the dale,
Pale cuckoopint brightened,
And windflower trail,
And white-thorn, the wood-bride,
In virginal veil.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Through deep woods pressed,
Sang cuckoo above him,
And lark on his crest,
And Philomel fluttered
Close under his breast.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Wherever you went
The bondage of winter
Was broken and rent,
Sank elfin ice-city
And frost-goblin's tent.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Yet sweet wild April,
The blithe, the brave,
Fell asleep in the fields
By a windless wave
And Jack-in-the-Pulpit
Preached over his grave.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Farewell to thee!
And a deep sweet sleep
To thy sisters three, -
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
poem by William Force Stead
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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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