A Spring Bouquet of Poetry II

In celebration of the first day of Spring.

To Spring

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

William Blake (1757-1827)
The Oxford Book of English Verse (1939) # 498
ed. Arthur Quiller-Couch

My Lady

I loved her for that she was beautiful;
And that to me she seem'd to be all Nature,
And all varieties of things in one:
Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise
All light and laughter in the morning; fear
No petty customs nor appearances;
But think what others only dream'd about;
And say what others did but think; and do
What others dared not do: so pure withal
In soul; in heart and act such conscious yet
Such perfect innocence, she made round her
A halo of delight. 'Twas these which won me;—
And that she never school'd within her breast
One thought or feeling, but gave holiday
To all; and that she made all even mine
In the communion of Love: and we
Grew like each other, for we loved each other;
She, mild and generous as the air in Spring;
And I, like Earth all budding out with love.

Philip James Bailey (1816-1902)
The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse (1913) # 225
ed. Arthur Quiller-Couch

Description of Spring
Wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale:
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs:
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;
The fishes flete with new repairèd scale.
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.

And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.

Henry Howard (1516-1547)
OBEV # 47

To Daffodils

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
   You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
   Has not attain'd his noon.
         Stay, stay
      Until the hasting day
         Has run
      But to the evensong;
And, having pray'd together, we
      Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
   We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
   As you, or anything.
         We die
      As your hours do, and dry
         Away
      Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
      Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
OBEV # 260

The Linnet

I heard a linnet courting
   His lady in the spring:
His mates were idly sporting,
   Nor stayed to hear him sing
         His song of love.—
I fear my speech distorting
         His tender love.

The phrases of his pleading
   Were full of young delight;
And she that gave him heeding
   Interpreted aright
         His gay, sweet notes,—
So sadly marred in the reading,—
         His tender notes.

And when he ceased, the hearer
   Awaited the refrain,
Till swiftly perching nearer
   He sang his song again,
         His pretty song:—
Would that my verse spake clearer
         His tender song!

Ye happy, airy creatures!
   That in the merry spring
Think not of what misfeatures
   Or cares the year may bring;
         But unto love
Resign your simple natures,
         To tender love.

Robert Bridges (1844-1930)
OBEV # 847

Night of Spring

    Slow, horses, slow,
    As through the wood we go—
We would count the stars in heaven,
    Hear the grasses grow:

    Watch the cloudlets few
    Dappling the deep blue.
In our open palms outspread
    Catch the blessed dew.

    Slow, horses, slow,
    As thro' the wood we go—
We would see fair Dian rise
    With her huntress bow:

    We would hear the breeze
    Ruffling the dim trees,
Hear its sweet love-ditty set
    To endless harmonies.

    Slow, horses, slow,
    As through the wood we go—
All the beauty of the night
    We would learn and know!

Thomas Westwood (1814-1888)
OBVV # 222

Whilst it is Prime

Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd—
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
      Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
      For none can call againe the passèd time.

Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
OBEV # 88

Daffodils

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
   That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
   In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
OBEV # 544

Spring on the Ochils

Fra whaur in fragrant wuds ye bide
Secure fra winter care,
Come, gentle Spring, to Ochilside
And Ochil valleys fair.
For sweet as ony pagan spring
Are Devon's watters clear;
And life wad be a lovely thing
Gif ye were only here.

She comes! the waffin' o' her wings
Wi' music fills the air;
An' wintry thochts o' men an' things
Vex human hearts nae mair.
On Devon banks wi' me she strays,
Her poet for the while,
And Ochil brooks and Ochil braes
Grow classic in her smile!

James Logie Robertson (b. 1846)
a.k.a. Hugh Haliburton
OBVV # 529

The Lilies of the Field
To F.L.U.

See also A Spring Bouquet of Poetry.

[And see also A Fall Bouquet of Poetry II.]

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Sat. 03/20/04 02:16:09 PM
Categorized as Literary & Most Notable.