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Spring Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Miracle by Annie Stone
  2. Ode On Spring by Benjamin Hine
  3. The Voice of Spring by Felicia Hemans
  4. Early Spring by John Clare
  5. Kindly Spring by John Newton
  6. Spring's Messengers by John Clare
  7. Sudden Shower by John Clare
  8. Child's Song in Spring by Edith Nesbit
  9. The Vernal Age by Philip Freneau
  10. Winter and Spring by Hannah Flagg Gould
  11. Spring in New-England by Carlos Wilcox
  12. Home Pictures in May by John Clare
  13. Spring Song by Anna Hempstead Branch
  14. Spring by H.G. Adams
  15. Spring Again by Celia Thaxter
  16. Spring in Town by William Cullen Bryant
  17. Spring by Nathaniel P. Willis
  18. My Lady Anemone by John Jarvis Holden
  19. A Foretaste of Spring by George Herbert Clarke
  20. A light exists in spring by Emily Dickinson
  21. In Shadow by Emily Dickinson
  22. A Lyric by Bliss Carman
  23. Spring's Saraband by Bliss Carman
  24. A March Glee by John Burroughs
  25. Spring by Madison Cawein
  26. Lament by Bliss Carman
  27. Spring Song by Laurence Dunbar
  28. Spring Gladness by John Burroughs
  29. Transformation by Madison Cawein
  30. Spring Twilight by Madison Cawein
  31. The Waking Earth by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  32. Resurrection by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  33. On Spring by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott
  34. Awakening by Margaret E. Sangster
  35. Springtime by James W. Whilt
  36. Spring and Summer by Kate Slaughter McKinney
  37. A Spring Song by Mathilde Blind
  38. The Sleeping Beauty by Mathilde Blind
  39. Spring is Coming by Ann Hawkshaw
  40. Spring Song by Elaine
  41. The First Breath of Spring by Ellen P. Allerton
  42. Gentle Spring by Ellen P. Allerton
  43. Frost in Spring by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse
  44. Spring by Christina Rossetti
  45. Spring Quiet by Christina Rossetti
  46. Spring Work by Mary B. C. Slade

  1. The Miracle

    by Annie Stone

    I had waited all the winter for a sign
    Something wondrous, a miracle divine;
    Today it came, a very lovely thing,
    A crocus in the close a-blossoming.
    Blue wings a-gleam, a song bird's sweetest strain,
    In gladness for spring's miracle again.

  2. Ode On Spring

    by Benjamin Hine

    Welcome, return of grateful Spring,
    Of thee my muse shall sweetly sing,
    And tune her joyful lays;
    Welcome, fair Phoebus, welcome here,
    To visit this our northern sphere,
    With thy all-cheering rays.

    All Nature feels the enlivening power,
    Of thy bright beams each shining hour,
    And smiles with joy around;
    The hills and dales all vocal are,
    Nothing but harmony is there,
    So sweet is every sound.

    Hark, from the trees the feathered choir,
    High mounted up aloft in air,
    Tuning their sweetest notes;
    Ere I awake they catch the theme,
    Ere Sol doth dart a radiant beam,
    Soft music fills their throats.

    Delightful season of the year,
    Thy mornings calm, thy evenings clear,
    And pleasant all the day.
    Gently by turns descending showers,
    Water the ground, then blooming flowers
    Adorn the earth most gay.

    Charming the prospect to behold,
    Each fragrant bud its leaves unfold,
    Its beauties all display;
    Through all the season thus they bloom,
    And shed around a sweet perfume,
    Then fade and die away.

    How good is all, how well designed,
    To please the sense, to instruct the mind,
    And make us wiser grow,
    May we not learn from every flower,
    To obey and praise the mighty Power,
    That freely does bestow?

    Awake, my soul, awake and sing,
    With rapturous notes tune every string,
    To sound the Author's praise;
    All vocal beings join my song,
    Man, beast, and bird, a numerous throng,
    And shouts of triumph raise.

    Sing the eternal Father's name,
    Who spread abroad the ethereal frame,
    And bade the planets roll;
    Who taught the seasons how to change,
    Who did the stars in order range,
    And still preserves the whole.

  3. The Voice of Spring

    by Felicia Hemans

    I come, I come! ye have called me long;
    I come o'er the mountains, with light and song.
    Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth
    By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
    By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
    By the green leaves opening as I pass.

    I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers
    By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,
    And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
    Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains;
    But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
    To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

    I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North,
    And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;
    The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
    And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
    And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
    And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.

    I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
    And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,
    From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
    In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
    To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
    When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

    From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
    They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
    They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
    They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
    They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
    And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

  4. Early Spring

    by John Clare

    The Spring is come, and Spring flowers coming too,
    The crocus, patty kay, the rich hearts' ease;
    The polyanthus peeps with blebs of dew,
    And daisy flowers; the buds swell on the trees;
    While oer the odd flowers swim grandfather bees
    In the old homestead rests the cottage cow;
    The dogs sit on their haunches near the pail,
    The least one to the stranger growls 'bow wow,
    ' Then hurries to the door and cocks his tail,
    To knaw the unfinished bone; the placid cow
    Looks oer the gate; the thresher's lumping flail
    Is all the noise the spring encounters now.

  5. Kindly Spring

    by John Newton

    Kindly spring again is here,
    Trees and fields in bloom appear;
    Hark! the birds with artless lays
    Warble their creator’s praise.

    Where in winter all was snow,
    Now the flowers in clusters grow;
    And the corn, in green array,
    Promises a harvest-day.

    Lord, afford a spring to me,
    Let me feel like what I see;
    Speak, and by Thy gracious voice,
    Make my drooping soul rejoice.

    On Thy garden deign to smile,
    Raise the plants, enrich the soil;
    Soon Thy presence will restore
    Life to what seemed dead before.

  6. Spring's Messengers

    by John Clare

    Where slanting banks are always with the sun
    The daisy is in blossom even now;
    And where warm patches by the hedges run
    The cottager when coming home from plough
    Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set.
    Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met
    Setting up little tents about the fields
    In sheltered spots.—Primroses when they get
    Behind the wood's old roots, where ivy shields
    Their crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide.
    —Cart ruts and horses' footings scarcely yield
    A slur for boys, just crizzled and that's all.
    Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side,
    And snow in scarce a feather's seen to fall.

  7. Sudden Shower

    by John Clare

    Black grows the southern sky, betokening rain,
    And humming hive-bees homeward hurry bye:
    They feel the change; so let us shun the grain,
    And take the broad road while our feet are dry.
    Ay, there some dropples moistened on my face,
    And pattered on my hat—tis coming nigh!
    Let's look about, and find a sheltering place.
    The little things around, like you and I,
    Are hurrying through the grass to shun the shower.
    Here stoops an ash-tree—hark! the wind gets high,
    But never mind; this ivy, for an hour,
    Rain as it may, will keep us dryly here:
    That little wren knows well his sheltering bower,
    Nor leaves his dry house though we come so near.

  8. Child's Song in Spring

    by Edith Nesbit

    The silver birch is a dainty lady,
    She wears a satin gown;
    The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady,
    She will not live in town.

    The English oak is a sturdy fellow,
    He gets his green coat late;
    The willow is smart in a suit of yellow,
    While brown the beech trees wait.

    Such a gay green gown God gives the larches—
    As green as He is good!
    The hazels hold up their arms for arches
    When Spring rides through the wood.

    The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty,
    The poplar's gentle and tall,
    But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city—
    I love him best of all!

  9. The Vernal Age

    by Philip Freneau

    Where the pheasant roosts at night,
    Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,
    Where the evening breezes sigh
    Solitary, there stray I.

    Close along the shaded stream,
    Source of many a youthful dream,
    Where branchy cedars dim the day
    There I muse, and there I stray.

    Yet, what can please amid this bower,
    That charmed the eye for many an hour!
    The budding leaf is lost to me,
    And dead the bloom on every tree.

    The winding stream, that glides along,
    The lark, that tunes her early song,
    The mountain's brow, the sloping vale,
    The murmuring of the western gale,

    Have lost their charms!—the blooms are gone!
    Trees put a darker aspect on,
    The stream disgusts that wanders by,
    And every zephyr brings a sigh.

    Great guardian of our feeble kind!—
    Restoring Nature, lend thine aid!
    And o'er the features of the mind
    Renew those colors, that must fade,
    When vernal suns forbear to roll,
    And endless winter chills the soul.

  10. Winter and Spring

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    "Adieu!" Father Winter sadly said
    To the world, when about withdrawing,
    With his old white wig half off his head,
    And his icicle fingers thawing.

    "Adieu! I am going to the rocks and caves,
    And must leave all here behind me;
    Or, perhaps I shall sink in the Northern waves,
    So deep that none can find me."

    "Good luck! good luck, to your hoary locks!"
    Said the gay young Spring, advancing;
    "You may take your rest mid the caves and rocks,
    While I o'er the earth am dancing.

    "But there is not a spot where your foot has trod,
    You hard, and clumsy old fellow,
    Not a hill, nor a field, nor a single sod,
    But I must make haste to mellow.

    "And then I shall carpet them o'er with grass,
    Which will look so bright and cheering,
    That none will regret that they let you pass
    Far out of sight and of hearing.

    "The fountains that you locked up so tight,
    When I shall give them a sunning,
    Will sparkle and play with my warmth and light,
    And the streams will set to running.

    "I'll speak in the earth to the palsied root,
    That under your reign was sleeping;
    I'll teach it the way in the dark to shoot,
    And draw out the vine to creeping.

    "The boughs that you cased so close in ice
    It was chilling e'en to behold them,
    I'll deck all over with buds so nice,
    My breath can alone unfold them.

    "And when all the trees are with blossoms dressed,
    The bird with her song so merry
    Will come to the branches to build her nest,
    With a view to the future cherry.

    "The earth will show by her loveliness,
    The wonders I am doing,
    While the skies look down, with a smile, to bless
    The way that I'm pursuing!"

    Said Winter, "Then I would have you learn
    By me, my gay new-comer,
    To push off too, when it comes your turn
    And yield your place to Summer!"

  11. Spring in New-England

    by Carlos Wilcox

    Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germes, and buds
    Start at the touch of vivifying beams.
    Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph
    Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field
    A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week,
    Is naked Nature in her full attire.
    On the first morn, light as an open plain
    Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured
    Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below,
    With strong reflection: on the last, 'tis dark
    With full-grown foliage, shading all within.

    In one short week the orchard buds and blooms;
    And now, when steep'd in dew or gentle showers,
    It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze,
    Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes.
    E'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth,
    And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air,
    Filled with a watery glimmering, receives
    A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays.
    Each day are heard, and almost every hour,
    New notes to swell the music of the groves.
    And soon the latest of the feather'd train
    At evening twilight come; the lonely snipe,
    O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air,
    Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones,
    Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head;
    And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen
    Flying a while at random, uttering oft
    A cheerful cry, attended with a shake
    Of level pinions, dark, but when upturned
    Against the brightness of the western sky,
    One white plume showing in the midst of each,
    Then far down diving with loud hollow sound;
    And, deep at first within the distant wood,
    The whip-poor-will, her name her only song.
    She, soon as children from the noisy sport
    Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones,
    To hear the echoes of the empty barn,
    Are by her voice diverted and held mute,
    Comes to the margin of the nearest grove;
    And when the twilight, deepened into night,
    Calls them within, close to the house she comes,
    And on its dark side, haply on the step
    Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen,
    Breaks into strains articulate and clear,
    The closing sometimes quickened as in sport.
    Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve
    All harmony, activity, and joy,
    Is lovely Nature, as in her bless'd prime.
    The robin to the garden or green yard,
    Close to the door, repairs to build again
    Within her wonted tree; and at her work
    Seems doubly busy for her past delay.
    Along the surface of the winding stream,
    Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim,
    Or round the borders of the spacious lawn
    Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er
    Hillock and fence with motion serpentine,
    Easy, and light. One snatches from the ground
    A downy feather, and then upward springs,
    Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,
    In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,
    When all at once dart at the falling prize.
    The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown,
    Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick
    Till her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops
    On the next tree, and on its highest limb
    Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits,
    Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes
    Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet,
    All chanted in the fulness of delight,
    The forest rings: where, far around enclosed
    With bushy sides, and covered high above
    With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks,
    Like pillars rising to support a roof,
    It seems a temple vast, the space within
    Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody.
    Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct,
    The merry mocking-bird together links
    In one continued song their different notes,
    Adding new life and sweetness to them all.
    Hid under shrubs, the squirrel that in fields
    Frequents the stony wall and briery fence,
    Here chirps so shrill that human feet approach
    Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries
    Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat
    Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree;
    But oft a moment after reappears,
    First peeping out, then starting forth at once
    With a courageous air, yet in his pranks
    Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far
    Till left unheeded. In rank pastures graze,
    Singly and mutely, the contented herd;
    And on the upland rough the peaceful sheep;
    Regardless of the frolic lambs, that, close
    Beside them, and before their faces prone,
    With many an antic leap and butting feint,
    Try to provoke them to unite in sport
    Or grant a look, till tired of vain attempts;
    When, gathering in one company apart,
    All vigour and delight, away they run,
    Straight to the utmost corner of the field,
    The fence beside; then, wheeling, disappear
    In some small sandy pit, then rise to view;
    Or crowd together up the heap of earth
    Around some upturned root of fallen tree,
    And on its top a trembling moment stand,
    Then to the distant flock at once return.
    Exhilarated by the general joy,
    And the fair prospect of a fruitful year,
    The peasant, with light heart and nimble step,
    His work pursues, as it were pastime sweet.
    With many a cheering word, his willing team,
    For labour fresh, he hastens to the field
    Ere morning lose its coolness; but at eve,
    When loosened from the plough and homeward turn'd,
    He follows slow and silent, stopping oft
    To mark the daily growth of tender grain
    And meadows of deep verdure, or to view
    His scatter'd flock and herd, of their own will
    Assembling for the night by various paths,
    The old now freely sporting with the young,
    Or labouring with uncouth attempts at sport.

  12. Home Pictures in May

    by John Clare

    The sunshine bathes in clouds of many hues
    And morning's feet are gemmed with early dews,
    Warm daffodils about the garden beds
    Peep through their pale slim leaves their golden heads,
    Sweet earthly nuns of Spring; the gosling broods
    In coats of sunny green about the road
    Waddle in extasy; and in rich moods
    The old hen leads her flickering chicks abroad,
    Oft scuttling 'neath her wings to see the kite
    Hang wavering o'er them in the spring's blue light.
    The sparrows round their new nests chirp with glee
    And sweet the robin Spring's young luxury shares
    Tootling its song in feathery gooseberry tree
    While watching worms the gardener's spade unbares.

  13. Spring Song

    by Anna Hempstead Branch

    Now I am made strange again
    With the old-time wildness.
    Spring, that loves the hearts of men,
    Save me by thy mildness.
    Nay, thou art not mild!
    Thou art not any child.
    Untamed art thou and swift to run,
    Exquisite — savage as the sun.
    A golden beast, in jungles of warm air
    I make my natural lair.
    Last night, in forests of the wind
    I kept my watch and ranged.
    With haughty eyes I viewed my kind,
    Magnificent, estranged.

    We are not gentle in our mood
    When the great Spring takes our blood,
    But passionate and fretful,
    And of mankind forgetful.
    'T is then we must be free!
    The daughter of the sky and wood,
    Let no one lay a hand on me.
    Nay, touch me not in Spring!
    Hardly look my way!
    A glance is such a heavy thing, —
    I need no friends to-day!
    In Summer maybe I'll grow still
    And bide because I love.
    There's no will now save my will,
    My soul is fain to rove.

    Always with the Spring
    Comes the thought of journeying,
    Mixed with the subtlest languor
    That would advise me to the ground
    Thereon to lie as soft as sound
    That in its bosom stirs.
    And so I do, — until at length
    Grown primitive with anger
    That has no source save youth and joy and strength,
    I run and shout 'twixt earth and sky,
    And Ring them from me and defy.

    Being in need of prey,
    Made boastful with the Spring one day,
    To the granite rock that stood my way,
    "Bubble, bubble, blue and gray,"
    Quoth I;
    "If I should touch you with my hand,
    How you would quiver from the land!
    I could make earth, sky, and seas
    Tremble from me like the breeze."
    Then everything grew soft and fair
    Breathed Out of visible air;
    And then, because I loved it so,
    I let the whole earth shine and grow

  14. Spring

    by H. G. Adams

    A bursting into greenness;
    A waking as from sleep;
    A twitter and a warble
    That make the pulses leap:
    A watching, as in childhood,
    For the flowers that, one by one,
    Open their golden petals
    To woo the fitful sun.
    A gust, a flash, a gurgle,
    A wish to shout and sing,
    As, filled with hope and gladness,
    We hail the vernal Spring.

  15. Spring Again

    by Celia Thaxter

    I stood on the height in the stillness
    And the planet's outline scanned,
    And half was drawn with the line of sea
    And half with the far blue land.

    With wings that caught the sunshine
    In the crystal deeps of the sky,
    Like shapes of dreams, the gleaming gulls
    Went slowly floating by.

    Below me the boats in the harbor
    Lay still, with their white sails furled;
    Sighing away into silence,
    The breeze died off the world.

    On the weather-worn, ancient ledges
    Peaceful the calm light slept;
    And the chilly shadows, lengthening,
    Slow to the eastward crept.

    The snow still lay in the hollows,
    And where the salt waves met
    The iron rock, all ghastly white
    The thick ice glimmered yet.

    But the smile of the sun was kinder,
    The touch of the air was sweet;
    The pulse of the cruel ocean seemed
    Like a human heart to beat.

    Frost-locked, storm-beaten, and lonely,
    In the midst of the wintry main,
    Our bleak rock yet the tidings heard:
    "There shall be spring again!"

    Worth all the waiting and watching,
    The woe that the winter wrought,
    Was the passion of gratitude that shook
    My soul at the blissful thought!

    Soft rain and flowers and sunshine,
    Sweet winds and brooding skies,
    Quick-flitting birds to fill the air
    With clear delicious cries;

    And the warm sea's mellow murmur
    Resounding day and night;
    A thousand shapes and tints and tones
    Of manifold delight,

    Nearer and ever nearer
    Drawing with every day!
    But a little longer to wait and watch
    'Neath skies so cold and gray;

    And hushed is the roar of the bitter north
    Before the might of the spring,
    And up the frozen slope of the world
    Climbs summer, triumphing.

  16. Spring in Town

    by William Cullen Bryant

    The country ever has a lagging Spring,
    Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
    And June its roses—showers and sunshine bring,
    Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth;
    To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
    And one by one the singing-birds come back.

    Within the city's bounds the time of flowers
    Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day,
    Such as full often, for a few bright hours,
    Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May,
    Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom—
    And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.

    For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then
    Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June,
    That overhung with blossoms, through its glen,
    Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon,
    And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers
    Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.

    For here are eyes that shame the violet,
    Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies,
    And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set,
    The anemonies by forest fountains rise;
    And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak
    Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

    And thick about those lovely temples lie
    Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled,
    Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy,
    And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world;
    Who curls of every glossy colour keepest,
    And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.

    And well thou may'st—for Italy's brown maids
    Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed,
    And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids,
    Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest;
    But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare,
    And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

    Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve,
    To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
    Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give
    Such piles of curls as nature never knew.
    Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight
    Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright.

    Soft voices and light laughter wake the street,
    Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye
    Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet
    Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by.
    The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space,
    Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.

    No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,
    Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,
    Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,
    A step that speaks the spirit of the place,
    Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away
    To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay.

    Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care
    For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show
    Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,
    And last edition of the shape! Ah no,
    These sights are for the earth and open sky,
    And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

  17. Spring

    by Nathaniel P. Willis

    "L'onda del mar divisa
    Bagna la valle e l'monte,
    Va passegiera
    In fiume,
    Va prigionera
    In fonte,
    Mormora sempre e geme
    Fin che non torna al mar."

    METASTASIO.

    The Spring is here, the delicate-footed May,
    With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers
    And with it comes a thirst to be away,
    Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours:
    A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
    Restless to soar above these perishing things.

    We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
    To find refreshment in the silent woods;
    And Nature, that is beautiful and dumb,
    Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods:
    Yet even there a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

    Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
    The waters tripping with their silver feet,
    The turning to the light leaves in June,
    And the light whisper as their edges meet:
    Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
    The spirit, walking in their midst alone.

    There's no contentment in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
    We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;
    Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye, And pine till it is hooded from the sky.

  18. My Lady Anemone

    by John Jarvis Holden

    Beneath soft snows harsh winter lingering
    Takes stand, betimes, against th' advancing spring
    To find itself betrayed before its flight —
    Within their midst that daintiest eremite,
    Th' anemone, dear April's solacing.

    Rare this, but rarer note doth nature ring
    When silvery locks, time's counterfeits, soft cling
    About a visage pink with vernal light
    Beneath soft snows!

    What lovelier fancy can she set a-wing?
    Here rifted age holds youth in th' opening;
    Here wisdom's hoary poll, in sweet despite,
    Is set to crown a face of pure delight —
    The wind-flower face I all too faintly sing
    Beneath soft snows.

  19. A Foretaste of Spring

    by George Herbert Clarke

    Sweet and golden afternoon
    Of the infant summer,
    Joyous one!
    Merry trills of laughter soon
    Peep and tremble and embrace,
    Flee and turn again to race
    Through the sun;
    Morning, slow old nurse, is lost,
    Birds and souls and flowers are tost
    In the sunlit pentecost —
    Winter's done!

    Birds are chirping melodies
    Made of clear notes vanishing
    In the sky!
    Yonder hum the yellow bees,
    Hither sway the tender branches,
    Mad young winds in avalanches
    Scurry by;
    All the flowers bloom a-blushing
    Rapture through the soul is rushing,
    Suddenly there comes a hushing —
    Night is nigh!

  20. A light exists in spring

    by Emily Dickinson

    A light exists in spring
    Not present on the year
    At any other period.
    When March is scarcely here

    A color stands abroad
    On solitary hills
    That science cannot overtake,
    But human nature feels.

    It waits upon the lawn;
    It shows the furthest tree
    Upon the furthest slope we know;
    It almost speaks to me.

    Then, as horizons step,
    Or noons report away,
    Without the formula of sound,
    It passes, and we stay:

    A quality of loss
    Affecting our content,
    As trade had suddenly encroached
    Upon a sacrament.

  21. In Shadow

    by Emily Dickinson

    I dreaded that first robin so,
    But he is mastered now,
    And I'm accustomed to him grown, —
    He hurts a little, though.

    I thought if I could only live
    Till that first shout got by,
    Not all pianos in the woods
    Had power to mangle me.

    I dared not meet the daffodils,
    For fear their yellow gown
    Would pierce me with a fashion
    So foreign to my own.

    I wished the grass would hurry,
    So when 't was time to see,
    He'd be too tall, the tallest one
    Could stretch to look at me.

    I could not bear the bees should come,
    I wished they'd stay away
    In those dim countries where they go:
    What word had they for me?

    They're here, though; not a creature failed,
    No blossom stayed away
    In gentle deference to me,
    The Queen of Calvary.

    Each one salutes me as he goes,
    And I my childish plumes
    Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
    Of their unthinking drums.

  22. A Lyric

    by Bliss Carman

    Oh, once I could not understand
    The sob within the throat of spring,—
    The shrilling of the frogs, nor why
    The birds so passionately sing.

    That was before your beauty came
    And stooped to teach my soul desire,
    When on these mortal lips you laid
    The magic and immortal fire.

    I wondered why the sea should seem
    So gray, so lonely, and so old;
    The sigh of level-driving snows
    In winter so forlornly cold.

    I wondered what it was could give
    The scarlet autumn pomps their pride,
    And paint with colors not of earth
    The glory of the mountainside.

    I could not tell why youth should dream
    And worship at the evening star,
    And yet must go with eager feet
    Where danger and where splendor are.

    I could not guess why men at times,
    Beholding beauty, should go mad
    With joy or sorrow or despair
    Or some unknown delight they had.

    I wondered what they had received
    From Time's inexorable hand
    So full of loveliness and doom.
    But now, ah, now I understand!

  23. Spring's Saraband

    by Bliss Carman

    Over the hills of April
    With soft winds hand in hand,
    Impassionate and dreamy-eyed,
    Spring leads her saraband.
    Her garments float and gather
    And swirl along the plain,
    Her headgear is the golden sun,
    Her cloak the silver rain.

    With color and with music,
    With perfumes and with pomp,
    By meadowland and upland,
    Through pasture, wood, and swamp,
    With promise and enchantment
    Leading her mystic mime,
    She comes to lure the world anew
    With joy as old as time.

    Quick lifts the marshy chorus
    To transport, trill on trill;
    There's not a rod of stony ground
    Unanswering on the hill.
    The brooks and little rivers
    Dance down their wild ravines,
    And children in the city squares
    Keep time, to tambourines.

    The bluebird in the orchard
    Is lyrical for her,
    The blackbird with his meadow pipe
    Sets all the wood astir,
    The hooded white spring-beauties
    Are curtsying in the breeze,
    The blue hepaticas are out
    Under the chestnut trees.

    The maple buds make glamor,
    Viburnum waves its bloom,
    The daffodils and tulips
    Are risen from the tomb.
    The lances of Narcissus
    Have pierced the wintry mold;
    The commonplace seems paradise
    Through veils of greening gold.

    O heart, hear thou the summons,
    Put every grief away,
    When all the motley masques of earth
    Are glad upon a day.
    Alack, that any mortal
    Should less than gladness bring
    Into the choral joy that sounds
    The saraband of spring!

  24. A March Glee

    by John Burroughs

    I hear the wild geese honking
    From out the misty night,—
    A sound of moving armies
    On-sweeping in their might;
    The river ice is drifting
    Beneath their northward flight.

    I hear the bluebird plaintive
    From out the morning sky,
    Or see his wings a-twinkle
    That with the azure vie;
    No other bird more welcome,
    No more prophetic cry.

    I hear the sparrow's ditty
    Anear my study door;
    A simple song of gladness
    That winter days are o'er
    My heart is singing with him,
    I love him more and more.

    I hear the starling fluting
    His liquid "O-ka-lee;"
    I hear the downy drumming,
    His vernal reveillé;
    From out the maple orchard
    The nuthatch calls to me.

    Oh, spring is surely coming.
    Her couriers fill the air;
    Each morn are new arrivals,
    Each night her ways prepare;
    I scent her fragrant garments,
    Her foot is on the stair.

  25. Spring

    by Madison Cawein

    First Came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips;
    A pursuivant who heralded a prince:
    And dawn put on her livery of tints,
    And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips:
    And, all in silver mail, the sunlight came,
    A knight, who bade the winter let him pass;
    And freed imprisoned beauty, naked as
    The Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame.
    And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness,
    Across the hills; and heav'n bent down to bless:
    Above her head the birds were as a lyre;
    And at her feet, like some strong worshipper,
    The shouting water pæn'd praise of her
    Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire.

  26. Lament

    by Bliss Carman

    When you hear the white-throat pealing
    From a tree-top far away,
    And the hills are touched with purple
    At the borders of the day;

    When the redwing sounds his whistle
    At the coming on of spring,
    And the joyous April pipers
    Make the alder marshes ring;

    When the wild new breath of being
    Whispers to the world once more,
    And before the shrine of beauty
    Every spirit must adore;

    When long thoughts come back with twilight,
    And a tender deepened mood
    Shows the eyes of the beloved
    Like the hepaticas in the wood;

    Ah, remember, when to nothing
    Save to love your heart gives heed,
    And spring takes you to her bosom, —
    So it was with Golden Weed!

  27. Spring Song

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    A blue-bell springs upon the ledge,
    A lark sits singing in the hedge;
    Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
    And life is brimming everywhere.
    What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,
    Is Spring, Spring, Spring!

    No more the air is sharp and cold;
    The planter wends across the wold,
    And, glad, beneath the shining sky
    We wander forth, my love and I.
    And ever in our hearts doth ring
    This song of Spring, Spring!

    For life is life and love is love,
    'Twixt maid and man or dove and dove.
    Life may be short, life may be long,
    But love will come, and to its song
    Shall this refrain for ever cling
    Of Spring, Spring, Spring!

  28. Spring Gladness

    by John Burroughs

    Now clap your hands together,
    For this is April weather,
    And love again is born;
    The west wind is caressing,
    The turf your feet are pressing
    Is thrilling to the morn.

    To see the grass a-greening,
    To find each day new meaning
    In sky and tree and ground;
    To see the waters glisten,
    To linger long, and listen
    To every wakening sound!

    To feel your nerves a-tingle
    By grackle's strident jingle
    Or starling's brooky call,
    Or phcebe's salutation,
    Or sparrow's proclamation
    Atop the garden wall!

    The maple trees are thrilling,
    Their eager juices spilling
    In many a sugar-camp.
    I see the buckets gleaming,
    I see the smoke and steaming,
    I smell the fragrant damp.

    The mourning-dove is cooing
    The husky crow is wooing,
    I hear his raucous vows;
    The robin's breast is glowing,
    Warm hues of earth are showing
    Behind the early plows.

    I love each April token
    And every word that's spoken
    In field or grove or vale,—
    The hyla's twilight chorus,
    The clanging geese that o'er us
    Keep well the northern trail.

    Oh, soon with heaping measures
    The spring will bring her treasures
    To gladden every breast;
    The sky with warmth a-beaming,
    The earth with love a-teeming —
    In life itself new zest!

  29. Transformation

    by Madison Cawein

    IT is the time when, by the forest falls,
    The touch-me-nots hang fairy folly-caps;
    When ferns and flowers fill the lichened laps
    Of rocks with colour, rich as orient shawls:
    And in my heart I hear a voice that calls
    Me woodward, where the hamadryad wraps
    Her limbs in bark, and, bubbling in the saps,
    Sings the sweet Greek of Pan's old madrigals:
    There is a gleam that lures me up the stream—
    A Naiad swimming with wet limbs of light?
    Perfume that leads me on from dream to dream—
    An Oread's footprints fragrant with her flight?
    And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again,
    Part of the myths that I pursue in vain.

  30. Spring Twilight

    by Madison Cawein

    The sun set late; and left along the west
    A belt of furious ruby, o'er which snows
    Of clouds unrolled; each cloud a mighty breast
    Blooming with almond-rose.

    The sun set late; and wafts of wind beat down,
    And cuffed the blossoms from the blossoming quince;
    Scattered the pollen from the lily's crown,
    And made the clover wince.

    By dusky forests, through whose fretful boughs
    In flying fragments shot the evening's flame,
    Adown the tangled lane the quiet cows
    With dreamy tinklings came.

    The sun set late; but hardly had he gone
    When o'er the moon's gold-litten crescent there,
    Clean Phosphor, polished as a precious stone,
    Burned in fair deeps of air.

    As from faint stars the glory waned and waned,
    The crickets made the oldtime garden shrill;
    And past the luminous pasture-lands complained
    The first far whippoorwill.

  31. Resurrection

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    Daffodil, lily, and crocus,
    They stir, they break from the sod,
    They are glad of the sun, and they open
    Their golden hearts to God.

    They, and the wilding families,—
    Windflower, violet, may,—
    They rise from the long, long dark
    To the ecstasy of day.

    We, scattering troops and kindreds,
    From out of the stars wind-blown
    To this wayside corner of space,
    This world that we call our own,—

    We, of the hedgerows of Time,
    We, too, shall divide the sod,
    Emerge to the light, and blossom,
    With our hearts held up to God.

  32. The Waking Earth

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    With shy bright clamour the live brooks sparkle and run.
    Freed flocks confer about the farmstead ways.
    The air's a wine of dreams and shining haze,
    Beaded with bird-notes thin,—for Spring's begun!
    The sap flies upward. Death is over and done.
    The glad earth wakes; the glad light breaks; the days
    Grow round, grow radiant. Praise for the new life!
    Praise
    For bliss of breath and blood beneath the sun!

    With potent wizardry the wise earth wields,
    To conjure with a perfume! From bare fields
    The sense drinks in a breath of furrow and sod.
    And lo, the bound of days and distance yields;
    And fetterless the soul is flown abroad,
    Lord of desire and beauty, like a God!

  33. On Spring


    by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

    Return sweet spring, and let thy jays
    Descend to cheer the ground,
    While each glad field her tribute pays,
    Bedeck'd with flowers around.

    While budding trees, adorn'd with green,
    Unfold their fragrant leaves;
    And cheerful songsters there are seen
    Their webbed nests to weave.

    Now let the joyful faimer strew
    His seed on broken soil,
    While with delight he hopes to view
    The harvest crown his toil.

    And now may gentle showers descend,
    To cheer the smiling meads,
    While their soft winds the zephyrs lend
    To weave the tender reeds.

    Now gentle streams refresh the vales,
    Exhaling odors sweet,
    Meandering down the hills and dales,
    And makes the scene complete.

  34. Awakening

    by Margaret E. Sangster

    Never yet was a springtime,
    Late though lingered the snow,
    That the sap stirred not at the whisper
    Of the south wind, sweet and low;
    Never yet was a springtime
    When the buds forgot to blow.

    Ever the wings of the summer
    Are folded under the mold;
    Life that has known no dying
    Is Love's to have and to hold,
    Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter!
    The song! the green and the gold!

  35. Springtime

    by James W. Whilt

    When sun begins to melt the snow
    And the birds commence to sing,
    And the days are getting longer,
    Then we know 'tis surely spring.

    It is then you get a fever,
    But your temp'ture does not raise,
    It's a kind of lazy feeling
    On those balmy warm spring days.

    And it starts your mind to working,
    While your thoughts commence to stray,
    To the hills and lakes and rivers,
    And green woodlands far away.

    And it makes you feel so drowsy
    That you long to go to sleep,
    Out beneath some tall green pine tree,
    Where the shadows cool and deep

    Just seem to be a-calling,
    While the stream beneath the hill
    Is chuckling with glad laughter,
    And I seem to hear it still.

    'Tis then memory breaks its halter
    And stampedes and starts to go,
    Till it stops in childhood's pasture
    In the days of long ago;

    Where the birds were all a-singing,
    Songs so rare and pure and sweet,
    Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,—
    Flowers blooming at your feet.

    Then the city seems a prison,
    While brick walls like prison bars,
    Seem to reach clear up to heaven,
    Till they mingle with the stars.

    Still I do not call a doctor,
    For he cannot ease, I know,
    Any longings for the wildwood
    Of the days of long ago.

  36. Spring and Summer

    by Kate Slaughter McKinney

    I heard a footstep on the hill,
    The little brook began to trill,
    I looked—a sweet and childlike face,
    Reflected like a blooming vase,
    Was smiling from the water clear,
    With buttercups behind her ear.

    A flock of swallows hove in sight,
    On came the summer clad in white,
    With sunshine falling from her hair
    Upon her shoulders white and bare,
    And pressing through the tangled grass,
    A daisy rose to watch her pass.

  37. A Spring Song

    by Mathilde Blind

    Dark sod pierced by flames of flowers,
    Dead wood freshly quickening,
    Bright skies dusked with sudden showers,
    Lit by rainbows on the wing.

    Cuckoo calls and young lambs' bleating
    Nimble airs which coyly bring
    Little gusts of tender greeting
    From shy nooks where violets cling.

    Half-fledged buds and birds and vernal
    Fields of grass dew-glistening;
    Evanescent life's eternal
    Resurrection, bridal Spring!

  38. The Sleeping Beauty

    by Mathilde Blind

    There was intoxication in the air;
    The wind, keen blowing from across the seas,
    O'er leagues of new-ploughed land and heathery leas,
    Smelt of wild gorse whose gold flamed everywhere.
    An undertone of song pulsed far and near,
    The soaring larks filled heaven with ecstasies,
    And, like a living clock among the trees,
    The shouting cuckoo struck the time of year.

    For now the Sun had found the earth once more,
    And woke the Sleeping Beauty with a kiss;
    Who thrilled with light of love in every pore,
    Opened her flower-blue eyes, and looked in his.
    Then all things felt life fluttering at their core—
    The world shook mystical in lambent bliss.

  39. Spring is Coming

    by Ann Hawkshaw

    There is a whisper in the woods,
    The breath of soft winds passing through,
    And rustling 'mid the dry brown leaves,
    Where last year's primrose grew;
    And high upon the leafless boughs
    Blithe Robin cheerily is singing,
    And to and fro the anemones
    Like fairy bells are swinging!

    The rivulet is murmuring
    Within its pebbly bed,
    For the ice bands which held it fast
    With the last sunshine fled;
    And many-coloured lichens creep
    O'er the old trees and stones,—
    There are a thousand pleasant sights,
    A thousand gladsome tones:

    For Spring is coming—and the flowers
    Will waken as from sleep;
    The birds will warble in the bowers,
    In streams the fishes leap;
    The butterflies will flutter past,
    The bees begin their humming;
    Cold winter does not ever last,
    Spring, pleasant Spring, is coming!

  40. Spring Song

    by Elaine

    Oh, the little streams are running,
    Running, running!—
    Oh, the little streams are running
    O'er the lea;
    And the green soft grass is springing,
    Springing, springing!—
    And the green soft grass is springing,
    Fair to see.

    In the woods the breezes whisper,
    Whisper, whisper!—
    In the woods the breezes whisper
    To the flowers;
    And the robins sing their welcome,
    Welcome, welcome!—
    And the robins sing their welcome,—
    Happy hours!

    Over all the sun is shining,
    Shining, shining!—
    Over all the sun is shining,
    Clear and bright,—
    Flooding bare and waiting meadows,
    Meadows, meadows!—
    Flooding bare and waiting meadows
    With his light.

  41. The First Breath of Spring

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    The drifts lie deep, the ice bound stream
    Wrestles in vain with its wedded chain:
    The lake still sleeps, still dreams its dream,
    Under its bright, cold counterpane.

    The woods are mute, save the mournful tune
    Sung by the wind in last year's leaves.
    Still that cracked and dolorous tune
    Sobs and shudders and frets and grieves.

    Winter is king:—yet, soft and sweet,
    Comes a whisper, a fair, faint tone
    Of distant music in muffled beat,
    Only a breath, yet it shakes his throne!

    Only a breath! and so faint and low,
    That I lean to listen, and bare my head—
    Lean to listen—till over the snow
    Comes the sound of a velvet tread.

    Who breathes so low? who comes apace.
    Treading softly, with feet unseen,
    With muffled form, and with covered face?
    It is Spring that comes.—Long live the Queen!

    Welcome! all hail to the reign so near!
    Thine hour is not yet come, we know;
    We shall wait through days that are gray and drear,
    Through howling tempest and driving snow.

    But we well can wait: the fields, the lake.
    Silent lie, like a realm of death;
    Yet thou art near and the dead shall wake,
    We have heard thy voice, we have felt thy breath!

    Haste! oh haste! In this hour of calm
    We have heard thee, but oh to feel thy kiss!
    Oh for the touch of thy lips of balm!
    And oh! to be drunk with thy draughts

  42. Gentle Spring

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    These are signs of gentle spring:
    Flocks of wild geese on the wing,
    Flying in a broken string;

    Brooks that tumble, roar and rush,
    Sinking drifts, and piles of slush,
    And a universal mush.

    Woman with a draggled dress,
    Puddles that seem bottomless,
    Roads all ditto—such a mess!

    Horses flounder, loaded down;
    Swearing driver—been to town—
    Curses, plunges—overthrown!

    Fancy sleighs for sale at cost,
    Balmy breezes, nipping frost,
    Wild march mornings, tempest-tossed.

    Robins, bluebirds, sleet and snow,
    Icy winds, and sunny glow—
    What comes next you never know.

    Sounds of coughs and choking wheezes,
    And of loud, spasmodic sneezes,
    Mingle with tlie straying breezes.

    Handkerchiefs are bought and sold
    By the dozen, I am told.
    Question—"Have you had your cold?"

    Come, ye singers, rise and sing!
    Poets, tune your every string
    For an ode to gentle spring.

  43. Frost in Spring

    by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

    Oh, had it been in Autumn, when all is spent and sere,
    That the first numb chill crept on us, with its ghostly hint of fear,
    I had borne to see love go, with things detached and frail,
    Swept outward with the blowing leaf on the unresting gale.

    But when day is a magic thing, when Time begins anew,
    When every clod is parted by Beauty breaking through,—
    How can it be that you and I bring Love no offering,
    How can it be that frost should fall upon us in the Spring!

  44. Spring

    by Christina Rossetti

    Frost-locked all the winter,
    Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
    What shall make their sap ascend
    That they may put forth shoots?
    Tips of tender green,
    Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
    Telling of the hidden life
    That breaks forth underneath,
    Life nursed in its grave by Death.

    Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
    Drips the soaking rain,
    By fits looks down the waking sun:
    Young grass springs on the plain;
    Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
    Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
    Swollen with sap, put forth their shoots;
    Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
    Birds sing and pair again.

    There is no time like Spring,
    When life's alive in everything,
    Before new nestlings sing,
    Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
    Along the trackless track,—
    God guides their wing,
    He spreads their table that they nothing lack,—
    Before the daisy grows a common flower,
    Before the sun has power
    To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.

    There is no time like Spring,
    Like Spring that passes by;
    There is no life like Spring-life born to die,—
    Piercing the sod,
    Clothing the uncouth clod,
    Hatched in the nest,
    Fledged on the windy bough,
    Strong on the wing:
    There is no time like Spring that passes by,
    Now newly born, and now
    Hastening to die.

  45. The First Spring Day

    by Christina Rossetti

    I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
    If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
    If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
    And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
    Sing, robin, sing!
    I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

    I wonder if the spring-tide of this year
    Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;
    If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,
    Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
    Sing, hope, to me!
    Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.

    The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
    The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
    So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom,
    Or in this world, or in the world to come:
    Sing, voice of Spring!
    Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

  46. Spring Quiet

    by Christina Rossetti

    Gone were but the Winter,
    Come were but the Spring,
    I would go to a covert
    Where the birds sing;

    Where in the white-thorn
    Singeth a thrush,
    And a robin sings
    In the holly-bush.

    Full of fresh scents
    Are the budding boughs,
    Arching high over
    A cool green house:

    Full of sweet scents,
    And whispering air
    Which sayeth softly:
    "We spread no snare;

    "Here dwell in safety,
    Here dwell alone,
    With a clear stream
    And a mossy stone.

    "Here the sun shineth
    Most shadily;
    Here is heard an echo
    Of the far sea,
    Though far off it be."

  47. Spring Work

    by Mary B. C. Slade

    Plough the land, plough the land;
    Hold the handles with each hand;
    Furrows keep straight and deep,
    Firm and steady stand.
    Quickly turn around we may,
    Ploughing back the other way;
    Plough the land, plough the land—
    Farmers understand.

    Sow the seed, sow the seed,
    Little birds will come and feed;
    Never mind, you will find
    Much they leave behind.
    Soon the tender blades will spring,
    Just as green as anything;
    Sow the seed, sow the seed,
    Pleasant work indeed.

    Now we rest, now we rest,
    After labor that is best;
    First you know, green will show
    Where the grain we sow.
    Soon you'll see a welcome sight,
    Field so pretty, green, and bright.
    Spring-time through, glad are you
    Farmer's work to do?