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The Weblog at The View from the Core - Thu. 04/01/04 05:52:17 AM

A Little Bouquet of April Poetry II

Home-thoughts, from Abroad

O, 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!

Robert Browning (1812-1889)
The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse (1913) # 207
ed. Arthur Quiller-Couch

Inviting the Influence of a Young Lady Upon the Opening Year

You wear the morning like your dress
And are with mastery crown'd;
When as you walk your loveliness
Goes shining all around:
Upon your secret, smiling way
Such new contents were found,
The Dancing Loves made holiday
On that delightful ground.
Then summon April forth, and send
Commandment through the flowers;
About our woods your grace extend,
A queen of careless hours.
For O! not Vera veil'd in rain,
Nor Dian's sacred Ring,
With all her royal nymphs in train
Could so lead on the Spring.

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)
The Oxford Book of English Verse (1939) # 924
ed. Arthur Quiller-Couch

On a Nightingale in April

The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
   Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
      Where the alders wave.

Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper:
   Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
      To a phantom raid.

Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons,
   A long, strange cry that thrills thro' the glade:—
The grey-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
      Newly afraid.

Last heard, white music, under the olives
   Where once Theocritus sang and play'd—
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder—
      O moon-white maid!

William Sharp (1856-1902)
OBVV # 576


April, April,
Laugh thy girlish laughter;
Then, the moment after,
Weep thy girlish tears!
April, that mine ears
Like a lover greetest,
If I tell thee, sweetest,
All my hopes and fears,
April, April,
Laugh thy golden laughter,
But, the moment after,
Weep thy golden tears!

Sir William Watson (1858-1935)
OBEV # 870

See also A Little Bouquet of April Poetry.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Thu. 04/01/04 05:52:17 AM
Categorized as Literary.


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