Classic Spring Poems

One Day in Spring...

One day in spring, a woman came In my lonely woods, In the lovely form of the Beloved. Came, to give to my songs, melodies, To give to my dreams, sweetness. Suddenly a wild wave Broke over my heart's shores And drowned all language. To my lips no name came, She stood beneath the tree, turned, Glanced at my face, made sad with pain, And with quick steps, came and sat by me. Taking my hands in hers, she said: 'You do not know me, nor I you-- I wonder how this could be?' I said: 'We two shall build, a bridge for ever Between two beings, each to the other unknown, This eager wonder is at the heart of things.' The cry that is in my heart is also the cry of her heart; The thread with which she binds me binds her too. Her have I sought everywhere, Her have I worshipped within me, Hidden in that worship she has sought me too. Crossing the wide oceans, she came to steal my heart. She forgot to return, having lost her own. Her own charms play traitor to her, She spreads her net, knowing not Whether she will catch or be caught.

Rabindranath Tagore

The Spring



By Thomas Carew


Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth

To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee.

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

In triumph to the world the youthful Spring.

The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array

Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lour;

Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold

Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.

The ox, which lately did for shelter fly

Into the stall, doth now securely lie

In open fields; and love no more is made

By the fireside, but in the cooler shade

Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep

Under a sycamore, and all things keep

Time with the season; only she doth carry

June in her eyes, in her heart January.





“April's air stirs in
Willow-leaves...a butterfly
Floats and balances”

― Matsuo Bashō, Japanese Haiku




“Don't touch my plumtree!
Said my friend and saying so...
Broke the branch for me”

― Taigi, Japanese Haiku




“Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still...
Iris, blue each spring”

― Shushiki, Japanese Haiku
"Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly -- and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it."

- Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
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These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.

The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods -
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.

Robert Frost

by William Henry Davies

Days Too Short

 

 When primroses are out in Spring, 
And small, blue violets come between; 
When merry birds sing on boughs green, 
And rills, as soon as born, must sing; 

When butterflies will make side-leaps, 
As though escaped from Nature's hand 
Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand 
Upon their heads in fragrant deeps; 

When small clouds are so silvery white 
Each seems a broken rimmed moon-- 
When such things are, this world too soon, 
For me, doth wear the veil of night.

http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous_poems/short/primroses

My primroses are already blooming. last year's plants survived the winter.

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Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

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