This I saw on an April day:Warm rain spilt from a sun-lined cloud,A sky-flung wave of gold at evening,And a cock pheasant treading a dusty pathShy and proud.And this I found in an April field:A new white calf in the sun at noon,A flash of blue in a cool moss bank,And tips of tulips promising flowersTo a blue-winged loon.
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;And give us not to think so far awayAs the uncertain harvest; keep us hereAll simply in the springing of the year.Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;And make us happy in the happy bees,The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
Unless a tree has borne blossoms in spring,you will vainly look for fruit on it in autumn.April rain is here again;Hear it pitter, pitter, patter,On the leaves and on the trees,See it spitter, spitter, spatter.Rain, oh rain, dont go awayWe need you for flowrs in May;Drip, drip, drop and do not stop,Send a little rain our way.
Are we to look at cherry blossoms only in full bloom, the moon only when it is cloudless? To long for the moon while looking on the rain, to lower the blinds and be unaware of the passing of the spring - these are even more deeply moving. Branches about to blossom or gardens strewn with flowers are worthier of our admiration.
No days such honored days as these! While yetFair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wideFor some fair thing which should forever bideOn earth, her beauteous memory to setIn fitting frame that no age could forget,Her name in lovely Aprils name did hide,And leave it there, eternally alliedTo all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.
Hail in the Spring, a start of new beginnings.Creativity awe-inspiring gives a reason to be living.Plant life showing life anew, a wonder to be found.New born lambs playing in the fields, birds nesting all aroundPeople enjoying the sun and the warmth, feeling good to be alive.Spring gives a purpose to our lives, a touch of Paradise.
Spring slattern of seasonsyou have soggy legsand a muddy petticoatdrowsyis your hair youreyes are sticky withdream and you have a sloppy body frombeing brought to bed of crocuseswhen you sing in your whisky voicethe grass rises on the head of the earthand all the trees are put on edgespringof the excellent jostle ofthy hipsand the superio
When April scatters charms of primrose goldAmong the copper leaves in thickets old,And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;When I can hear the small woodpecker ringTime on a tree for all the birds that sing;And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long --The simple bird that thinks two notes a song.
You can always tell its AprilBy the sound of falling rainThat mystic, mournful musicAs it trickles down the drain.Were told we should be thankfulFor the kiss of April showersAs it washes all the grass cleanAnd prepares the soil for flowers.Theres another side to AprilWhich doesnt bode us good,When that mini, manic maelstromTurns the lawn to liquid mud.
All the wild sweetness of the flowerTangled against the wall.It was that magic, silent hour....The branches grew so tallThey twined themselves into a bower.The sun shown ... and the fallOf 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.
In many ways April is a kind of down time, shoulder season, off-peak, a kind of gray zone between the big winter events and the promise of summer. So perhaps it is the crocuses, the slightly warmer days, the lengthening hours of light that makes April also about poetry. Popularly conceived of as off-peak, the practice of poetry seems to fit in with the promise of the season.
There is not any haunt of prophecy,Nor any old chimera of the grave,Neither the golden underground, nor isleMelodious, where spirits gat them home,Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palmRemote on heavens hill, that has enduredAs Aprils green endures; or will endureLike her remembrance of awakened birds,Or her desire for June and evening, tippedBy the consummation of the swallows wings.
In April, we cannot see sunflowers in France, so we might say the sunflowers do not exist. But the local farmers have already planted thousands of seeds, and when they look at the bare hills, they may be able to see the sunflowers already. The sunflowers are there. They lack only the conditions of sun, heat, rain and July. Just because we cannot see them does not mean that they do not exist.
All that is sweet, delightful, and amiable in this world, in the serenity of the air, the fineness of seasons, the joy of light, the melody of sounds, the beauty of colors, the fragrance of smells, the splendor our precious stones, is nothing else but Heaven breaking through the veil of this world, manifesting itself in such a degree and darting forth in such variety so much of its own nature.
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke betweenWhere the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.I am amazed at this spring, this conflagrationOf green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blazeOf growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
