IN THE WOMB

Arthur Stringer

Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil:Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies:The horse waits patient: from his lowly toilThe ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.The unbudding hedgerows dark against day's firesGlitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rimOver the unregarding city's spiresThe lonely beauty shines alone for him.And day by day the dawn or dark unfoldsAnd feeds with beauty eyes that cannot seeHow in her womb the mighty mother mouldsThe infant spirit for eternity.

Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil:Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies:The horse waits patient: from his lowly toilThe ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.

The unbudding hedgerows dark against day's firesGlitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rimOver the unregarding city's spiresThe lonely beauty shines alone for him.

And day by day the dawn or dark unfoldsAnd feeds with beauty eyes that cannot seeHow in her womb the mighty mother mouldsThe infant spirit for eternity.

"A. E."(George William Russell)

You come to fetch me from my work to-nightWhen supper's on the table, and we'll seeIf I can leave off burying the whiteSoft petals fallen from the apple tree.(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)And go along with you ere you lose sightOf what you came for and become like me,Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.How Love burns through the Putting in the SeedOn through the watching for that early birthWhen, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,The sturdy seedling with arched body comesShouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

You come to fetch me from my work to-nightWhen supper's on the table, and we'll seeIf I can leave off burying the whiteSoft petals fallen from the apple tree.

(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)And go along with you ere you lose sightOf what you came for and become like me,

Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.How Love burns through the Putting in the SeedOn through the watching for that early birthWhen, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,

The sturdy seedling with arched body comesShouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

Robert Frost

In the misty hollow, shyly greening branchesSoften to the south wind, bending to the rain.From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers,Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain.Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses,Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring,Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness,Little crying wind-sounds come before the King.Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus,Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone,Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily,God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His throne.

In the misty hollow, shyly greening branchesSoften to the south wind, bending to the rain.From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers,Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain.

Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses,Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring,Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness,Little crying wind-sounds come before the King.

Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus,Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone,Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily,God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His throne.

Edward J. O'Brien

Within the garden there is healthfulness.Lavishly it gives it usIn light that cleavesTo every movement of its thousand handsOf palms and leaves.And the good shade where it accepts,After long journeyings,Our steps,Pours on the weary limbA force of life and sweetness likeIts mosses dim.When the lake is playing with the wind and sun.It seems a crimson heartWithin, all ardent, has begunTo throb with the moving wave;The gladiolus and the fervent rose,Which in their splendor move unshadowèd,Upon their vital stems exposeTheir cups of gold and red.Within the garden there is healthfulness.

Within the garden there is healthfulness.

Lavishly it gives it usIn light that cleavesTo every movement of its thousand handsOf palms and leaves.

And the good shade where it accepts,After long journeyings,Our steps,Pours on the weary limbA force of life and sweetness likeIts mosses dim.

When the lake is playing with the wind and sun.It seems a crimson heartWithin, all ardent, has begunTo throb with the moving wave;The gladiolus and the fervent rose,Which in their splendor move unshadowèd,Upon their vital stems exposeTheir cups of gold and red.

Within the garden there is healthfulness.

Emile Verhaeren

I stood within a Garden during rainUncovering to the drops my lifted brow:O joyous fancy, to imagine nowI slip, with trees and clouds, the social chain,Alone with nature, naught to lose or gainNor even to become; no, just to beA moment's personal essence, wholly freeFrom needs that mold the heart to forms of pain.Arise, I cried, and celebrate the hour!Acclaim serener gladness; if it fail,New courage, nobler vision, will surviveThat I have known my kinship to the flower,My brotherhood with rain, and in this valeHave been a moment's friend to all alive.

Horace Holley

You may have seen, when winds were high,That hesitant buds would not unfoldIn garden-borders chill and dry,Bright with the Easter-lilies' gold.Then, suddenly, would come a shower—The big breeze veering to the west—And happier music filled the bowerAbove the thrush's hidden nest:The elm-tree's inconspicuous bloomVanished amidst her little leaves;In box and bay a fragrant gloomInspired the wren's recitatives:The woods assumed their delicate greenAnd spoke in songs that brought you bliss:Ay, and your withered heart has beenQuickened on such a day as this!

You may have seen, when winds were high,That hesitant buds would not unfoldIn garden-borders chill and dry,Bright with the Easter-lilies' gold.

Then, suddenly, would come a shower—The big breeze veering to the west—And happier music filled the bowerAbove the thrush's hidden nest:

The elm-tree's inconspicuous bloomVanished amidst her little leaves;In box and bay a fragrant gloomInspired the wren's recitatives:

The woods assumed their delicate greenAnd spoke in songs that brought you bliss:Ay, and your withered heart has beenQuickened on such a day as this!

Rowland Thirlmere

I hear leaves drinking Rain;I hear rich leaves on topGiving the poor beneathDrop after drop;'Tis a sweet noise to hearThese green leaves drinking near.And when the Sun comes out,After this Rain shall stop,A wondrous Light will fillEach dark, round drop;I hope the Sun shines bright;'Twill be a lovely sight.

I hear leaves drinking Rain;I hear rich leaves on topGiving the poor beneathDrop after drop;'Tis a sweet noise to hearThese green leaves drinking near.

And when the Sun comes out,After this Rain shall stop,A wondrous Light will fillEach dark, round drop;I hope the Sun shines bright;'Twill be a lovely sight.

William H. Davies

We come and go, as the breezes blow,But whence or whereHath ne'er been told in the legends oldBy the dreaming seer.The welcome rain to the parching plainAnd the languid leaves,The rattling hail on the burnished mailOf the serried sheaves,The silent snow on the wintry browOf the aged year,Wends each his way in the track of dayFrom a clouded sphere:But still as the fog in the dismal bogWhere the shifting sheenOf the spectral lamp lights the marshes damp,With a flash unseenWe drip through the night from the starlids bright,On the sleeping flowers,And deep in their breast is our perfumed restThrough the darkened hours:But again with the day we are up and awayWith our stolen dyes,To paint all the shrouds of the drifting cloudsIn the eastern skies.

John B. Tabb

It may be so; but let the unknown be.We, on this earth, are servants of the sun.Out of the sun comes all the quick in me,His golden touch is life to everyone.His power it is that makes us spin through space,His youth is April and his manhood bread,Beauty is but a looking on his face,He clears the mind, he makes the roses red.What he may be, who knows? But we are his,We roll through nothing round him, year by year,The withering leaves upon a tree which isEach with his greed, his little power, his fear.What we may be, who knows? But everyoneIs dust on dust a servant of the sun.

It may be so; but let the unknown be.We, on this earth, are servants of the sun.Out of the sun comes all the quick in me,His golden touch is life to everyone.

His power it is that makes us spin through space,His youth is April and his manhood bread,Beauty is but a looking on his face,He clears the mind, he makes the roses red.

What he may be, who knows? But we are his,We roll through nothing round him, year by year,The withering leaves upon a tree which isEach with his greed, his little power, his fear.

What we may be, who knows? But everyoneIs dust on dust a servant of the sun.

John Masefield

I reach my arms up, to the sky,And golden vine on vineOf sunlight showered wild and high,Around my brows I twine.I wreathe, I wind it everywhere,The burning radiancyOf brightness that no eye may dare,To be the strength of me.Come, redness of the crystalline,Come green, come hither blueAnd violet—all alive within,For I have need of you.Come honey-hue and flush of gold,And through the pallor run,With pulse on pulse of manifoldNew largess of the Sun!O steep the silence till it sing!O glories from the height,Come down, where I am garlandingWith light, a child of light!

I reach my arms up, to the sky,And golden vine on vineOf sunlight showered wild and high,Around my brows I twine.

I wreathe, I wind it everywhere,The burning radiancyOf brightness that no eye may dare,To be the strength of me.

Come, redness of the crystalline,Come green, come hither blueAnd violet—all alive within,For I have need of you.

Come honey-hue and flush of gold,And through the pallor run,With pulse on pulse of manifoldNew largess of the Sun!

O steep the silence till it sing!O glories from the height,Come down, where I am garlandingWith light, a child of light!

Josephine Preston Peabody

With fingers softer than the touch of deathThe sundial writes the passing of the day,The hours unfolding slow to twilight gray,The gleaming moments vanish in a breath.But sunny hours alone the sundial names;All unrecorded are the midnight spansAnd vain within the dusk the watcher scansThe marble face; thereon no record flames.So on eternal dials that God may hold,And those more humble in the human heart,No bitter deeds their passing hours impart;Kind deeds alone are marked in fadeless gold!

With fingers softer than the touch of deathThe sundial writes the passing of the day,The hours unfolding slow to twilight gray,The gleaming moments vanish in a breath.

But sunny hours alone the sundial names;All unrecorded are the midnight spansAnd vain within the dusk the watcher scansThe marble face; thereon no record flames.

So on eternal dials that God may hold,And those more humble in the human heart,No bitter deeds their passing hours impart;Kind deeds alone are marked in fadeless gold!

Arthur Wallace Peach

Oh, Sundial, you should not be young,Or fresh and fair, or spick and span!None should remember when beganYour tenure here, nor whence you sprung!Like ancient cromlech notch'd and scarr'd,I would have had you sadly tow'rAbove this world of leaf and flowerAll ivy-tress'd and lichen-starr'd;Ambassador of Time and Fate,In contrast stern to bud and bloom,Seeming half temple and half tomb,And wholly solemn and sedate;Till, one with God's own works on earth,The lake, the vale, the mountain-brow,We might have come to count you nowWhose home was here before our birth.But lo! a priggish, upstart thing—Set here to tell so old a truth—How fleeting are our days of youth—You, that were only made last spring!Go to!... What sermon can you preach,Oh, mushroom—mentor pert and new?We are too old to learn of youWhat you are all too young to teach!Yet, Sundial, you and I may swearEternal friendship, none the less,For I'll respect your youthfulnessIf you'll forgive my silver hair!

Oh, Sundial, you should not be young,Or fresh and fair, or spick and span!None should remember when beganYour tenure here, nor whence you sprung!

Like ancient cromlech notch'd and scarr'd,I would have had you sadly tow'rAbove this world of leaf and flowerAll ivy-tress'd and lichen-starr'd;

Ambassador of Time and Fate,In contrast stern to bud and bloom,Seeming half temple and half tomb,And wholly solemn and sedate;

Till, one with God's own works on earth,The lake, the vale, the mountain-brow,We might have come to count you nowWhose home was here before our birth.

But lo! a priggish, upstart thing—Set here to tell so old a truth—How fleeting are our days of youth—You, that were only made last spring!

Go to!... What sermon can you preach,Oh, mushroom—mentor pert and new?We are too old to learn of youWhat you are all too young to teach!

Yet, Sundial, you and I may swearEternal friendship, none the less,For I'll respect your youthfulnessIf you'll forgive my silver hair!

Violet Fane

I thought my garden finished. I beheldEach bush bee-visited; a green charm quelledThe louder winds to music; soft boughs madePatches of silver dusk and purple shade—And yet I felt a lack of something still.There was a little, sleepy-footed rillThat lapsed among sun-burnished stones, where sleptFish, rainbow-scaled, while dragon-flies, adept,Balanced on bending grass.All perfect? No.My garden lacked a fountain's upward flow.I coaxed the brook's young Naiad to resignHer meadow wildness, building her a shrineOf worship, where each ravished waif of airMight wanton in the brightness of her hair.So here my fountain flows, loved of the wind,To every vagrant, aimless gust inclined,Yet constant ever to its source. It greetsThe face of morning, wavering windy sheetsOf woven silver; sheer it climbs the noon,A shaft of bronze; and underneath the moonIt sleeps in pearl and opal. In the stormIt streams far out, a wild, gray, blowing form;While on calm days it heaps above the lake,—Pelting the dreaming lilies half awake,And pattering jewels on each wide, green frond,—Recurrent pyramids of diamond!

There was a little, sleepy-footed rillThat lapsed among sun-burnished stones, where sleptFish, rainbow-scaled, while dragon-flies, adept,Balanced on bending grass.

All perfect? No.My garden lacked a fountain's upward flow.I coaxed the brook's young Naiad to resignHer meadow wildness, building her a shrineOf worship, where each ravished waif of airMight wanton in the brightness of her hair.

So here my fountain flows, loved of the wind,To every vagrant, aimless gust inclined,Yet constant ever to its source. It greetsThe face of morning, wavering windy sheetsOf woven silver; sheer it climbs the noon,A shaft of bronze; and underneath the moonIt sleeps in pearl and opal. In the stormIt streams far out, a wild, gray, blowing form;While on calm days it heaps above the lake,—Pelting the dreaming lilies half awake,And pattering jewels on each wide, green frond,—Recurrent pyramids of diamond!

Harry Kemp

God spoke! and from the arid sceneSprang rich and verdant bowers,Till all the earth was soft with green,—He smiled; and there were flowers.

Mary McNeil Fenollosa

God spreads a carpet soft and greenO'er which we pass;A thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen—And that is Grass.Delightful music woos the ear;The grass is stirredDown to the heart of every spear—Ah, that's a Bird.Clouds roll before a blue immenseThat stretches highAnd lends the soul exalted sense—That scroll's a Sky.Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests;Their jubileeExtols brave Captains and their quests—And that is Sea.New-leaping grass, the feathery flute,The sapphire ring,The sea's full-voiced, profound salute,—Ah, this is Spring!

God spreads a carpet soft and greenO'er which we pass;A thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen—And that is Grass.

Delightful music woos the ear;The grass is stirredDown to the heart of every spear—Ah, that's a Bird.

Clouds roll before a blue immenseThat stretches highAnd lends the soul exalted sense—That scroll's a Sky.

Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests;Their jubileeExtols brave Captains and their quests—And that is Sea.

New-leaping grass, the feathery flute,The sapphire ring,The sea's full-voiced, profound salute,—Ah, this is Spring!

Arthur Powell

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence,The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose,The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam,The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes,The hope of a bride or the dream of a maidenWatching the petals of gladness unclose?Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret,The bliss at the core of your magical mirth,That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonderAnd hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth,That captures the heavens and conquers to blossomThe roots of delight in the heart of the earth?

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret,The bliss at the core of your magical mirth,That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonderAnd hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth,That captures the heavens and conquers to blossomThe roots of delight in the heart of the earth?

Sarojini Naidu

At the first hour, it was as if one said, "Arise."At the second hour, it was as if one said, "Go forth."And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyesSank below the white horizon at the north.At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst;"At the fourth hour, all the earth was still:Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst;And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill.At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne;At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried;At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown,At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died.At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb;And the earth was then silent for the space of three hours.But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloomShot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers.

At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst;"At the fourth hour, all the earth was still:Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst;And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill.

At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne;At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried;At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown,At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died.

At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb;And the earth was then silent for the space of three hours.But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloomShot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers.

John Gould Fletcher

Spirit immortal of mortality,Imperishable faith, calm miracleOf resurrection, truth no tongue can tell,No brain conceive,—now witnessed utterlyIn this new testament of earth and sea,—To us thy gospel! Where the acorn fellThe oak-tree springs: no seed is infidel!Once more, O Wonder, flower and field and treeReveal thy secret and significance!And we, who share unutterable thingsAnd feel the foretaste of eternity,Haply shall learn thy meaning and perchanceSet free the soul to lift immortal wingsAnd cross the frontiers of infinity.

George Cabot Lodge

Sure, afther all the winther,An' afther all the snow,'Tis fine to see the sunshine,'Tis fine to feel its glow;'Tis fine to see the buds breakOn boughs that bare have been—But best of all to Irish eyes'Tis grand to see the green!Sure, afther all the winther,An' afther all the snow,'Tis fine to hear the brooks singAs on their way they go;'Tis fine to hear at mornin'The voice of robineen,But best of all to Irish eyes'Tis grand to see the green!Sure, here in grim New EnglandThe spring is always slow,An' every bit o' green grassIs kilt wid frost and snow;Ah, many a heart is wearyThe winther days, I weenBut oh, the joy when springtime comesAn' brings the blessed green!

Sure, afther all the winther,An' afther all the snow,'Tis fine to hear the brooks singAs on their way they go;'Tis fine to hear at mornin'The voice of robineen,But best of all to Irish eyes'Tis grand to see the green!

Sure, here in grim New EnglandThe spring is always slow,An' every bit o' green grassIs kilt wid frost and snow;Ah, many a heart is wearyThe winther days, I weenBut oh, the joy when springtime comesAn' brings the blessed green!

Denis A. McCarthy

Once more in misted AprilThe world is growing green.Along the winding riverThe plumey willows lean.Beyond the sweeping meadowsThe looming mountains rise,Like battlements of dreamlandAgainst the brooding skies.In every wooded valleyThe buds are breaking through,As though the heart of all thingsNo languor ever knew.The golden-wings and bluebirdsCall to their heavenly choirs.The pines are blued and driftedWith smoke of brushwood fires.And in my sister's gardenWhere little breezes run,The golden daffodilliesAre blowing in the sun.

Once more in misted AprilThe world is growing green.Along the winding riverThe plumey willows lean.

Beyond the sweeping meadowsThe looming mountains rise,Like battlements of dreamlandAgainst the brooding skies.

In every wooded valleyThe buds are breaking through,As though the heart of all thingsNo languor ever knew.

The golden-wings and bluebirdsCall to their heavenly choirs.The pines are blued and driftedWith smoke of brushwood fires.

And in my sister's gardenWhere little breezes run,The golden daffodilliesAre blowing in the sun.

Bliss Carman

With memories and odorsThe wind is warm and mild;The earth is like a motherWhere leaps the unborn child.The grackles flock returningLike rain-clouds from the south.And all the world lies yearningToward summer, mouth to mouth.How soft the hills and hazySeen through the open door!—The crocus shines, a virgin,White from the grassy floor.The children whirl around in a ring,And laugh and sing, and dance and sing:But the blackbird whistles clear,O clear,"The Spring, the Spring!"

With memories and odorsThe wind is warm and mild;The earth is like a motherWhere leaps the unborn child.

The grackles flock returningLike rain-clouds from the south.And all the world lies yearningToward summer, mouth to mouth.

How soft the hills and hazySeen through the open door!—The crocus shines, a virgin,White from the grassy floor.

The children whirl around in a ring,And laugh and sing, and dance and sing:But the blackbird whistles clear,O clear,"The Spring, the Spring!"

John Hall Wheelock

Fall, rain! You are the blood of coming blossom,You shall be music in the young birds' throats,You shall be breaking, soon, in silver notes;A virgin laughter in the young earth's bosom.Oh, that I could with you reënter earth,Pass through her heart and come again to sun,Out of her fertile dark to sing and runIn loveliness and fragrance of new mirth!Fall, rain! Into the dust I go with you,Pierce the remaining snows with subtle fire,Warming the frozen roots with soft desire,Dreams of ascending leaves and flowers new.I am no longer body,—I am bloodSeeking for some new loveliness of shape;Dark loveliness that dreams of new escape,The sun-surrender of unclosing bud.Take me, O Earth! and make me what you will;I feel my heart with mingled music fill.

Conrad Aiken

Under a budding hedge I hidWhile April rain went by,But little drops came slipping through,Fresh from a laughing sky:A-many little scurrying drops,Laughing the song they sing,Soon found me where I sought to hide,And pelted me with Spring.And I lay back and let them pelt,And dreamt deliciouslyOf lusty leaves and lady-blossomsAnd baby-buds I'd seeWhen April rain had laughed the landOut of its wintry way,And coaxed all growing things to greetWith gracious garb the May.

Under a budding hedge I hidWhile April rain went by,But little drops came slipping through,Fresh from a laughing sky:

A-many little scurrying drops,Laughing the song they sing,Soon found me where I sought to hide,And pelted me with Spring.

And I lay back and let them pelt,And dreamt deliciouslyOf lusty leaves and lady-blossomsAnd baby-buds I'd see

When April rain had laughed the landOut of its wintry way,And coaxed all growing things to greetWith gracious garb the May.

Shaemas O Sheel

The dews drip roses on the meadowsWhere the meek daisies dot the sward.And Æolus whispers through the shadows,"Behold the handmaid of the Lord!"The golden news the skylark wakethAnd 'thwart the heavens his flight is curled;Attend ye as the first note breakethAnd chrism droppeth on the world.The velvet dusk still haunts the streamWhere Pan makes music light and gay.The mountain mist hath caught a beamAnd slowly weeps itself away.The young leaf bursts its chrysalisAnd gem-like hangs upon the bough,Where the mad throstle sings in blissO'er earth's rejuvenated brow.

The velvet dusk still haunts the streamWhere Pan makes music light and gay.The mountain mist hath caught a beamAnd slowly weeps itself away.The young leaf bursts its chrysalisAnd gem-like hangs upon the bough,Where the mad throstle sings in blissO'er earth's rejuvenated brow.

ENVOI

Slowly fall, O golden sands,Slowly fall and let me sing,Wrapt in the ecstasy of youth,The wild delights of Spring.

Francis Ledwidge

Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease,For here is April weather!The daffodils beneath the treesAre all a-row together.The thrush is back with his old note;The scarlet tulip blowing;And white—ay, white as my love's throat—The dogwood boughs are glowing.The lilac bush is sweet again;Down every wind that passes,Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane;The bees are in the grasses.And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in,And Care is but a feather;And every lad his love can win,For here is April weather.

Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease,For here is April weather!The daffodils beneath the treesAre all a-row together.

The thrush is back with his old note;The scarlet tulip blowing;And white—ay, white as my love's throat—The dogwood boughs are glowing.

The lilac bush is sweet again;Down every wind that passes,Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane;The bees are in the grasses.

And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in,And Care is but a feather;And every lad his love can win,For here is April weather.

Lizette Woodworth Reese

There flames the first gay daffodilWhere winter-long the snows have lain:Who buried Love, all spent and still?There flames the first gay daffodil.Go, Love's alive on yonder hill,And yours for asking, joy and pain,There flames the first gay daffodilWhere winter-long the snows have lain!

Ruth Guthrie Harding

The Easter sunrise flung a bar of goldO'er the awakening wold.What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth,What token of re-birth,Of tender vernal mirth,Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold?Under the kindling panoply which GodSpreads over tree and clod,I looked far abroad.Umber the sodden reaches seemed and seerAs when the dying year,With rime-white sandals shod,Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier.Of some rathe quickening, some divineRenascence not a sign!And yet, and yet,With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret,The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred,And one lone birdAn unexpected jetOf song projected through the morning blue,As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew.And so I gathered heart, and cried again:"O earth, make plain,At this matutinal hour,The triumph and the powerOf life eternal over death and pain,Although it be but by some simple flower!"And then, with sudden light,Was dowered my veilèd sight,And I beheld in a sequestered placeA slender crocus show its sun-bright face.O miracle of Grace,Earth's Easter answer came,The revelation of transfiguring Might,In that small crocus flame!

The Easter sunrise flung a bar of goldO'er the awakening wold.What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth,What token of re-birth,Of tender vernal mirth,Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold?

Under the kindling panoply which GodSpreads over tree and clod,I looked far abroad.Umber the sodden reaches seemed and seerAs when the dying year,With rime-white sandals shod,Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier.Of some rathe quickening, some divineRenascence not a sign!

And yet, and yet,With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret,The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred,And one lone birdAn unexpected jetOf song projected through the morning blue,As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew.

And so I gathered heart, and cried again:"O earth, make plain,At this matutinal hour,The triumph and the powerOf life eternal over death and pain,Although it be but by some simple flower!"

And then, with sudden light,Was dowered my veilèd sight,And I beheld in a sequestered placeA slender crocus show its sun-bright face.O miracle of Grace,Earth's Easter answer came,The revelation of transfiguring Might,In that small crocus flame!

Clinton Scollard

It is the time of violets.It is the very dayWhen in the shadow of the woodSpring shall have her say,Remembering how the early godsCame up the violet way.Are there not violetsAnd gods—To-day?

Witter Bynner

Guarded within the old red wall's embrace,Marshalled like soldiers in gay company,The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantryWheels out into the sunlight. What bold graceSets off their tunics, white with crimson lace!Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry,With scarlet sabres tossing in the eyeOf purple batteries, every gun in place.Forward they come, with flaunting colors spread,With torches burning, stepping out in timeTo some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead,We cannot catch the tune. In pantomimeParades the army. With our utmost powersWe hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.

Amy Lowell

Brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows,Coming while breezes of April are cold,Winter can't freeze you, he flies when he sees youThrusting your spears through the redolent mold.Jolly Dutch flowers, rejoicing in showers,Drink! ere the pageant of Spring passes by!Hold your carousals to Robin's espousals,Lifting rich cups for the wine of the sky!Dignified urbans in glossy silk turbans,Burgherlike blossoms of gardens and squares,Nodding so solemn by fountain and column,What is the talk of your weighty affairs?Pollen and honey (for such is your money),—Gossip and freight of the chaffering bee,—Prospects of growing,—what colors are showing,—News of rare tulips from over the sea?Loitering near you, how often I hear you,Just ere your petals at twilight are furled,Laugh through the grasses while Evelyn passes,"There goes the loveliest flower in the world!"

Brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows,Coming while breezes of April are cold,Winter can't freeze you, he flies when he sees youThrusting your spears through the redolent mold.

Jolly Dutch flowers, rejoicing in showers,Drink! ere the pageant of Spring passes by!Hold your carousals to Robin's espousals,Lifting rich cups for the wine of the sky!

Dignified urbans in glossy silk turbans,Burgherlike blossoms of gardens and squares,Nodding so solemn by fountain and column,What is the talk of your weighty affairs?

Pollen and honey (for such is your money),—Gossip and freight of the chaffering bee,—Prospects of growing,—what colors are showing,—News of rare tulips from over the sea?

Loitering near you, how often I hear you,Just ere your petals at twilight are furled,Laugh through the grasses while Evelyn passes,"There goes the loveliest flower in the world!"

Arthur Guiterman

Tall and clothed in samite,Chaste and pure,In smooth armor,—Your head held highIn its helmetOf silver:Jean D'Arc ridingAmong the sword blades!Has Spring for youWrought visions,As it did for herIn a garden?

Tall and clothed in samite,Chaste and pure,In smooth armor,—Your head held highIn its helmetOf silver:Jean D'Arc ridingAmong the sword blades!

Has Spring for youWrought visions,As it did for herIn a garden?

Pauline B. Barrington

May is building her house. With apple bloomsShe is roofing over the glimmering rooms;Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams,And, spinning all day at her secret looms,With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wallShe pictureth over, and peopleth it allWith echoes and dreams,And singing of streams.May is building her house of petal and blade;Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made,With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover,Each small miracle over and over,And tender, travelling green things strayed.Her windows the morning and evening star,And her rustling doorways, ever ajarWith the coming and goingOf fair things blowing,The thresholds of the four winds are.May is building her house. From the dust of thingsShe is making the songs and the flowers and the wings;From October's tossed and trodden goldShe is making the young year out of the old;Yea! out of winter's flying sleetShe is making all the summer sweet,And the brown leaves spurned of November's feetShe is changing back again to spring's.

May is building her house of petal and blade;Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made,With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover,Each small miracle over and over,And tender, travelling green things strayed.

Her windows the morning and evening star,And her rustling doorways, ever ajarWith the coming and goingOf fair things blowing,The thresholds of the four winds are.

May is building her house. From the dust of thingsShe is making the songs and the flowers and the wings;From October's tossed and trodden goldShe is making the young year out of the old;Yea! out of winter's flying sleetShe is making all the summer sweet,And the brown leaves spurned of November's feetShe is changing back again to spring's.

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