SPRING SCENE.
Winter is past; the heart of Nature warmsBeneath the wreck of unresisted storms;Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen,The southern slopes are fringed with tender green;On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,White, azure, golden—drift, or sky, or sun:The snowdrop, bearing on her radiant breastThe frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;The violet, gazing on the arch of blueTill her own iris wears its deepened hue;The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mold,Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold.Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on highPrints her thick buds against the spotted sky;On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleavesThe gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves;The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave,Drugged with the opiate that November gave,Beats with faint wing against the snowy pane,Or crawls tenacious o’er its lucid plain;From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted wallsIn languid curves the gliding serpent crawls;The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleepTwangs a hoarse note, and tries a shortened leap.On floating rails that face the softening noonsThe still, shy turtles range their dark platoons,Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields,Trail through the grass their tesselated shields.At last young April, ever frail and fair,Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,Chased to the margin of receding floods,O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,In tears and blushes sighs herself away,And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.O. W. Holmes.
Winter is past; the heart of Nature warmsBeneath the wreck of unresisted storms;Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen,The southern slopes are fringed with tender green;On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,White, azure, golden—drift, or sky, or sun:The snowdrop, bearing on her radiant breastThe frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;The violet, gazing on the arch of blueTill her own iris wears its deepened hue;The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mold,Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold.Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on highPrints her thick buds against the spotted sky;On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleavesThe gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves;The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave,Drugged with the opiate that November gave,Beats with faint wing against the snowy pane,Or crawls tenacious o’er its lucid plain;From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted wallsIn languid curves the gliding serpent crawls;The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleepTwangs a hoarse note, and tries a shortened leap.On floating rails that face the softening noonsThe still, shy turtles range their dark platoons,Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields,Trail through the grass their tesselated shields.At last young April, ever frail and fair,Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,Chased to the margin of receding floods,O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,In tears and blushes sighs herself away,And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.O. W. Holmes.
Winter is past; the heart of Nature warmsBeneath the wreck of unresisted storms;Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen,The southern slopes are fringed with tender green;On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,White, azure, golden—drift, or sky, or sun:The snowdrop, bearing on her radiant breastThe frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;The violet, gazing on the arch of blueTill her own iris wears its deepened hue;The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mold,Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold.Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on highPrints her thick buds against the spotted sky;On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleavesThe gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves;The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave,Drugged with the opiate that November gave,Beats with faint wing against the snowy pane,Or crawls tenacious o’er its lucid plain;From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted wallsIn languid curves the gliding serpent crawls;The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleepTwangs a hoarse note, and tries a shortened leap.On floating rails that face the softening noonsThe still, shy turtles range their dark platoons,Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields,Trail through the grass their tesselated shields.At last young April, ever frail and fair,Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,Chased to the margin of receding floods,O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,In tears and blushes sighs herself away,And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.O. W. Holmes.
Winter is past; the heart of Nature warms
Beneath the wreck of unresisted storms;
Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen,
The southern slopes are fringed with tender green;
On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,
Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,
Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,
White, azure, golden—drift, or sky, or sun:
The snowdrop, bearing on her radiant breast
The frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;
The violet, gazing on the arch of blue
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue;
The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mold,
Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold.
Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high
Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky;
On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves
The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves;
The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave,
Drugged with the opiate that November gave,
Beats with faint wing against the snowy pane,
Or crawls tenacious o’er its lucid plain;
From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls
In languid curves the gliding serpent crawls;
The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleep
Twangs a hoarse note, and tries a shortened leap.
On floating rails that face the softening noons
The still, shy turtles range their dark platoons,
Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields,
Trail through the grass their tesselated shields.
At last young April, ever frail and fair,
Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,
Chased to the margin of receding floods,
O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,
In tears and blushes sighs herself away,
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.
O. W. Holmes.
SPRING.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.
The soft west wind, returning, brings againIts lovely family of herbs and flowers;Progne’s gay notes, and Philomela’s strainVary the dance of spring-tide’s rosy hours;And joyously o’er every field and plain,Glows the bright smile that greets them from above,And the warm spirit of reviving loveBreathes in the air and murmurs from the main.But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushinglyPour from the secret chambers of my heart,Are all that spring returning brings to me;And in the modest smile, or glance of art,The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,A desert’s rugged tract and savage forms I see.Translation ofG. W. Greene.Francesco Petrarca, 1304–1374.
The soft west wind, returning, brings againIts lovely family of herbs and flowers;Progne’s gay notes, and Philomela’s strainVary the dance of spring-tide’s rosy hours;And joyously o’er every field and plain,Glows the bright smile that greets them from above,And the warm spirit of reviving loveBreathes in the air and murmurs from the main.But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushinglyPour from the secret chambers of my heart,Are all that spring returning brings to me;And in the modest smile, or glance of art,The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,A desert’s rugged tract and savage forms I see.Translation ofG. W. Greene.Francesco Petrarca, 1304–1374.
The soft west wind, returning, brings againIts lovely family of herbs and flowers;Progne’s gay notes, and Philomela’s strainVary the dance of spring-tide’s rosy hours;And joyously o’er every field and plain,Glows the bright smile that greets them from above,And the warm spirit of reviving loveBreathes in the air and murmurs from the main.But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushinglyPour from the secret chambers of my heart,Are all that spring returning brings to me;And in the modest smile, or glance of art,The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,A desert’s rugged tract and savage forms I see.Translation ofG. W. Greene.Francesco Petrarca, 1304–1374.
The soft west wind, returning, brings again
Its lovely family of herbs and flowers;
Progne’s gay notes, and Philomela’s strain
Vary the dance of spring-tide’s rosy hours;
And joyously o’er every field and plain,
Glows the bright smile that greets them from above,
And the warm spirit of reviving love
Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main.
But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly
Pour from the secret chambers of my heart,
Are all that spring returning brings to me;
And in the modest smile, or glance of art,
The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,
A desert’s rugged tract and savage forms I see.
Translation ofG. W. Greene.Francesco Petrarca, 1304–1374.
Morning