Within The April Woodland Grow
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Upon the breeze they softly sing.
As now the boughs begin to leaf
The sun does shine with gentle beam,
To light the flowers there beneath
And glisten on the restful stream.
That through the woodland winds its way
And follows me where'er I tread,
For love has come to me this day
As to this land I now am wed.
My heart is filled with gladdened cheer
To see the sight and hear the sound,
To me the greatest time of year
When they adorn the barren ground.
Each one to me a lover's kiss
Upon my lips that waited long,
For now I feel a sense of bliss
That lifts me like the throstle's song.
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Unto the shore they softly sing.
poem by Andrew Blakemore
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Belles of Blue
The Scent of Bluebells brush the soul
And melt your tears away,
A gentle breeze through leafy trees
Gives purpose to your day.
The Shape of Bluebells cheers the heart
And lifts your spirit up,
Pure bells of joy sweet bells of cheer
To drain the bitter cup
The Smile of Bluebells clears the mind
And turns your fears to joy,
A smile to lighten all mankind
And every Girl and Boy.
The Sight of Bluebells in the wood
Confirms that Spring is here,
A carpet of the purest blue
To fill our lives with cheer.
The Strength of Bluebells is their 'Blue'
A colour so divine,
A lovely bright and heavenly hue
Sent from God's heart to mine.
The Source of Bluebells is the LORD
They grow at His command,
For by His own creative power
Each tree and flower was planned.
The Secret of the Blubells power
Lies in the joy it brings,
Inside the heart of every flower
The 'Joy of Heaven' rings.
Dedicated to all the lovely Belles in the PH Family
(John Knight - Colchester - October 2009)
poem by John Knight
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A Patient's Lament
I missed the soft, gentle rains of April.
I did not hear the robin nestlings
Calling for their daily fare.
I did not see the early violets
Spring up from the woodland floor,
Nor see the graceful daffodils
Swaying gently in the breeze.
Where has April Gone?
Oh where has April gone?
poem by Mary M. Coughlin
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April Rain
The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shaw and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.
The April sun, the April sun,
Glints through the rain in fitful splendour,
And in grey shaw and woodland dun
The little leaves spring forth and tender
Their infant hands, yet weak and slender,
For warmth towards the April sun,
One after one.
And between shower and shine hath birth
The rainbow's evanescent glory;
Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth!
Frail symbol of our human story,
It flowers through showers where, looming hoary,
The rain-clouds flash with April mirth,
Like Life on earth.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Maiden's Prayer
SPRING, pretty Spring, what treasure do you bring to me?
Green grass and buttercups, cherry-bloom and may?
Sunshine to be glad with me, and little birds to sing to me?
Warm nests to call me along the woodland way?
Spring, happy Spring, what wonder will you do for me?
Light the tulip lanterns, and set the furze a-fire?
Fill your sky with sails of cloud on waves of living blue for me?
Show me green cornfields and budding of the briar?
Spring, darling Spring, my days will not return to me,
You who see them fleeting, you, all time above,
You who move the whole world's heart, ah move one heart to turn to me,
--Bring me a lover, and teach me how to love!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Song of April!
Is it that incomplete song
you sing for me April
or the soulful song of
a nightingale or a song
from the heart of Earth
A song long heard
which is lost in the waves
or one melody which melts
the rocks so hard you want
to sing for me April
A song I can sing from the
notes so perfect or the one
so loud to compete with
the wild clouds and forests
Is it that song incomplete April
you sing for me now...
April 17, 2009
poem by Rema Prasanaa
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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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The First Of October
The first of October a beautiful day
And in the blue sky just a few specks of gray
And sunshine on the Parkland and on the park trees
And the warmth of Spring is in the freshening breeze,
The malelucas resplendent in their blossoms of white
And the magpies are piping in the warm sunlight,
The first of October and the capeweed in bloom
And beautiful golden flowers cover the broom,
In the paddock by the wood the grey kangaroos graze
They often venture out of cover on pleasant Spring days,
The first day of the second month of the Spring
And in the woodland nesting birds chirp and sing
And the sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky
And the swallows above the paddocks they sing as they fly.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When The Bluebells Bloom
There is so much beauty in Nature but as lovely a thing as I've seen
Is in May when the bluebells are blooming on the ditch along the old bohreen
The wild hyacinths of Mother Nature so lovely and bell like and blue
When the bohreen is lit by bright sunlight they sparkle in the morning dew.
Of the beautiful bluebells of Nature the memory with me remain
On the damp and shady ditch of the bohreem they bloom in the wind and the rain
Surrounded by Nature's leafy greenery where nesting birds whistle and sing
In fancy I can visualize the beauty of the Northern Spring.
In May when the bluebells are blooming birds whistle on the hedgerows and trees
And the wildflowers blooming amongst the long grass are dancing in the freshening breeze
And the hawthorns are heavily laden in their fragile blossoms of white
Than the natural beauty of Nature there's not a more beautiful sight.
When the bluebells bloom by the bohreen the little brown lark upwards fly
And pleasant the sound of his carolling this tiny speck in the Spring sky
And though I now live far from the bohreen in distance almost a World away
I fancy I hear the birds singing in the leafy woodlands of May.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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My Four Seasons
I gaze out through my window to the colours of the leaves,
Reds and browns and yellows floating like fairies from the trees.
I follow the as they burst alive and dance among the breeze,
And my smile is echoed effortlessly in the colours of the leaves.
I peer out through my curtains to the snow upon the ground,
Dreaming of the diamonds drowsily fluttering from the clouds,
Strewn across the hedgerows and the fields and all around,
The snow lies peacefully sleeping, a jewel upon the ground.
And look! - all of a sudden grow the bluebells in the wood!
Swaying happily to and fro, just like they always should.
And as the spring awakens, rusty from the flood,
The sun begins to shine upon the bluebells in the wood.
At last, through my curtains I see the flowers of July,
Their beauty almost mirrored in the sunshine in the sky,
And I see the tuplips grinning as a bright blue butterfly
Lands upon the petals of the flowers in July.
poem by Twilight Whispers
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It's Just A Song (Lyric) :
You hear the sound of the song.
It's coming on real strong.
It gives you a sense of strength.
it filters through the air.
It lifts you off the ground.
We hear from town to town.
It's just a song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
it's just a song.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It takes you out in space.
Closer to second base.
It follows through so cool.
The smoothest thing for you.
A sound that sounds so clear.
A sound you'll want to hear.
It's just a song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It's just a song.
It's just a-song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It sends you through the air.
A sound that makes you high.
It makes you feel so good.
A sound that always should.
Just lifts you off the ground.
We hear from town to town.
It's just a-song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It's just a song.
It's just a-song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
it's just a song..
Song-Lyric-Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1989,2009..
ALL rights reserved..
See>>www.edwardspoetry.com
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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A Lover's Vow To Spring
Love, there's an ancient quarry where bluebells grow
Like sapphires in the melting snow
Like quartz-clocks they tell the time is spring
If ‘ere you'd listen, you might just here them ring
Like a mountain Elysian blue spring,
Oh darling do you hear an after-ring!
And if so take mine own!
For now I've loved all summers are postpone.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Over The Land Is April
OVER the land is April,
Over my heart a rose;
Over the high, brown mountain
The sound of singing goes.
Say, love, do you hear me,
Hear my sonnets ring?
Over the high, brown mountain,
Love, do you hear me sing?
By highway, love, and byway
The snows succeed the rose.
Over the high, brown mountain
The wind of winter blows.
Say, love, do you hear me,
Hear my sonnets ring?
Over the high, brown mountain
I sound the song of spring,
I throw the flowers of spring.
Do you hear the song of spring?
Hear you the songs of spring?
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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A Distant Spring
I who love the Spring so well
Shall be sleeping, some glad day,
When her hosts come back to dwell
In their old, familiar way.
I shall live, alas! no more
In some distant April hour,
When the Spring finds wide her door,
Calling leaf, and bloom, and flower.
I shall sleep--but I shall dream
In my home beneath the ground,
And my slumbering heart shall teem
With its visions deep, profound.
I shall know, ere you will guess
(Though with life I have no part),
What new golden loveliness
Stirs within the old earth's heart.
I shall hear the first soft sound
When the Spring is born anew,
And rejoice, beneath the ground,
At the bliss to come to you.
And the dreams that I shall dream,
In that Spring when I am dead,
May arise until they seem
Blossoms white and blossoms red!
poem by Charles Hanson Towne
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Where No Bells Toll
There is a wood
where we played as children
and bluebells grow
When you came home
after seeing the rape of Zimbabwe
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the killing fields of Iraq
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the poppy fields of Afghanistan
we picked bluebells
When you came home
telling of monks beaten in Tibet
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the line of fire on the Gaza Strip
it was in a coffin
There is a wood
where history plays tricks on us
and bluebells grow
poem by Roger Taber
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Threnody For A Poet
Not in the ancient abbey,
Nor in the city ground,
Not in the lonely mountains,
Nor in the blue profound,
Lay him to rest when his time is come
And the smiling mortal lips are dumb;
But here in the decent quiet
Under the whispering pines,
Where the dogwood breaks in blossom
And the peaceful sunlight shines,
Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold,
When spring comes back in her green and gold.
And when that mortal likeness
Has been dissolved by fire,
Say not above the ashes,
'Here ends a man's desire.'
For every year when the bluebirds sing,
He shall be part of the lyric spring.
Then dreamful-hearted lovers
Shall hear in wind and rain
The cadence of his music,
The rhythm of his refrain,
For he was a blade of the April sod
That bowed and blew with the whisper of God.
poem by Bliss William Carman
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A Spring
I so liked Spring last year
that's the time I've met you dear.
Thrushes began to sing everywhere
like the music you love to hear.
I still like Spring this year
because I know you're still there
like an angel who's always near
and a friend who really care
I love Spring for simply it is Spring
a season for a new beginning!
9th April 2009
poem by Jazlle D. H.
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April Far Away
On the mossy ditch along the old bohreen
Wildflowers in their thousands are now to be seen
Bluebells and primroses and snowdrops in white
Bloom after the rains in the warm Spring sunlight.
Dandelions, buttercups and daisies in April are never rare
In the lush green fields they are seen everywhere
And the pink breasted bullfinch singing on the alder tree
Amidst all the greenery quite easy to see.
The wild birds are nesting and all through the day
The leafy groves echo to their songs in April far away
And young lambs in the fields around their mothers play
Youth must have it's fling you hear people say.
The lark carols above the mountain and the clear flowing rill
It babbles it's way down the field by the hill
On to join the big stream along by the hedgerow
That flows to the big river that to the sea flow.
The crab tree wears her blossoms of light pink to gray
And far north of here in April far away
The fox cubs in the sunshine play outside their den
And in fancy I hear the loud song of the wren.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Lament For Leaf Loss
Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the days are growing darker and the night lasts long
But listen for the flutter of each shrivelled tear
As it drops in golden leaf-fall of the fading, dying year.
Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the light is growing dimmer and the night lasts long
But listen for the echoes of the summer’s breeze
As it gossips with the branches of the leafless poplar trees.
Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the frost is growing grimmer and the night lasts long
But listen for the rustle of lost autumn leaves
And the crying of the dewdrops as the barren forest grieves.
Sing sad songs for the days that are gone
Now the mood is growing glummer and the night lasts long
But listen for the whispers of the coming spring
When the buds begin their bursting and the birds begin to sing.
Sing no more for the days that are gone
For the light will soon be stronger and the night less long
And listen to the rhythm of season’s song
As spring will soon be with us while the winter won’t be long.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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A Country Path in Late Spring
The path of mossy ground nestled
In between maternal hedgerows,
That overgrew atop, dimming down
The brilliance of the day.
Embosomed, a calm-cool vision –
Abstract takes of nature, in
Leaf-spattered green shades;
Stem-speckled brown hues;
Shards of sunlight percolating
Through the random flaws to
Up glittering sprites upon the leaves.
And avian chatter bounced along the burrow,
Smattered by the crosstalk
Of busybody insects;
But outside the green comfort zone,
Other worlds of other sounds of other life
Otherwise gave a hint of
Other dozy goings on.
Hawthorn filled the air,
Filled the nose,
Filled the head –
Pungency had overpowered all –
Gave the late-spring-early-summer haze.
Here and there a break of colour:
Odd bluebells – escapees from nearby woods –
Blue-blushing bell faces glancing down,
Aware of their erectness in the stem;
The flaming wing of red admirals
Broke through a hedge hole to
Break up the calm backdrop,
While flitting blue tits gave
To greater-bodied animation.
Nature’s warm narration –
The undertones of life.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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spring nature nature spring; spring nature nature spring
spring nature nature spring; spring nature nature spring
spring nature nature spring; spring nature nature spring
spring nature nature spring; spring nature nature spring
spring nature nature spring; spring nature nature spring
spring nature nature spring; spring nature nature spring
spring nature nature spring; spring nature nature spring
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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