Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of SpringThe Winter Garment of Repentance flingThe Bird of Time has but a little wayTo fly -- and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing.The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a Line,Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
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.
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.
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
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.
One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my little nephew to Disneyland, but instead I drove him to an old burned-out warehouse. "Oh, no," I said. "Disneyland burned down." He cried and cried, but I think that deep down, he thought it was a pretty good joke. I started to drive over to the real Disneyland, but it was getting pretty late.
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.
Once a day and sometimes moreI look out my day dream doorTo see if spring is out there yetIm really anxious, but mustnt fret.I see the snow a melting downand lots of mud and slush aroundI know the grass will surely sproutand birds and flowers will come about.But why oh why does it take so long?Im sure the calendar cant be wrong.Sunshine fills my heart with cheerI wish that spring were really here.
We do not ask what useful purpose the birds do sing, for song is their pleasure since they were created for singing. Similarly, we ought not to ask why the human mind troubles to fathom the secrets of the heavens... The diversity of the phenomena of Nature is so great, and the treasures hidden in the heavens so rich, precisely in order that the human mind shall never be lacking in fresh nourishment.
Poets and songwriters speak highly of spring as one of the great joys of life in the temperate zone, but in the real world most of spring is disappointing. We looked forward to it too long, and the spring we had in mind in February was warmer and dryer than the actual spring when it finally arrives. We’d expected it to be a whole season, like winter, instead of a handful of separate moments and single afternoons.
From you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April dressd in all his trimHath put a spirit of youth in every thing,That heavy Saturn laughd and leapd with him.Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smellNor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;They were but sweet, but figures of delight,Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.Yet seemd it winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.
