All the wild sweetness of the flower
Tangled against the wall.
It was that magic, silent hour….
The branches grew so tall
They twined themselves into a bower.
The sun shown … and the fall
Of yellow blossom on the grass!
You feel that golden rain?
Both of you could not hold, alas,
(both of you tried, in vain)
A memory, stranger. So I pass….
It will not come again.
—-
The years at spring
And days at the morn;
Mornings at seven;
The hill sidess dew-pearled;
The larks on the wing;
The snails on the thorn;
Gods in his heaven -
Alls right with the world!
—-
How many million Aprils came
before I ever knew
how white a cherry bough could be,
a bed of squills, how blue
And many a dancing April
when life is done with me,
will lift the blue flame of the flower
and the white flame of the tree
Oh burn me with your beauty then,
oh hurt me tree and flower,
lest in the end death try to take
even this glistening hour…
—-
No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn.
April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.
—-
Meadowlarks
give lusty cheers
when spring appears
when spring appears.
Buds and seeds
prick up their ears
and blades of grass
show eager spears.
And only icicles
weep tears
when spring appears
when spring appears.
—-
Spring has again returned.
The Earth is like a child that knows many poems.
Many, O so many. For the hardship
of such long learning she receives the prize.
Strict was her teacher.
The white in the old mans beard pleases us.
Now, what to call green, to call blue,
we dare to ask: She knows, She knows!
—-
My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp
air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler
breathings of April; the nights and mornings no longer by their
Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we
could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden.
