If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year,or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake,and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there wouldbe in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity.To most men only the cessation of the miracle would bemiraculous and the perpetual exercise of Gods powerseems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.
Late April and you are three; todayWe dug your garden in the yard.To curb the damage of your play,Strange dogs at night and the moles tunneling,Four slender sticks of lath stand guardUplifting their thin string.So you were the first to tramp it down.And after the earth was sifted closeYou brought your watering can to drownAll earth and us. But these mixed seeds are pressedWith light loam in their steadfast rows.Child, weve done our best.
Flower god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,Here I wander in AprilCold, grey-headed; and still to myHeart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer,Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant;Spring, flower-planter in meadows,Child-conductor in willowyFields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses:Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity:O child, happy are children!
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earnsNo answering smile from me, whose life is twindWith the dead boughs that winter still must bind,And whom today the Spring no more concerns.Behold, this crocus is a withering flame;This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossoms partTo breed the fruit that breeds the serpents art.Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them,Nor stay till on the years last lily-stemThe white cup shrivels round the golden heart.
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the years pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing--Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay--Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet--Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring, the sweet Spring!
