N Spring's Awakening OW fades the last long streak of snow, Now rings the woodland loud and long, Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives From land to land; and in my breast And buds and blossoms like the rest. Tennyson. Late February Days ATE February days; and now, at last, So fair the sky was, and so soft the air. The happy birds were hurrying here and there, As something soon would happen. Reddened now The hedges, and in gardens many a bough Was overbold of buds. Sweet days, indeed, Although past road and bridge, through wood and mead, Swift ran the brown stream, swirling by the grass, And in the hill-side hollows snow yet was. William Morris. The Celandine ANSIES, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies, In the time before the thrush Telling tales about the sun When we've little warmth or none. Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face; In the lane there's not a place But 't is good enough for thee. Wordsworth. Primroses and Dew HY do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears W Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower, Nor felt th' unkind Who think it strange to see, Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that Sweetheart to this? No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with care are, and with tears brought forth. Herrick. Daffodils AIR Daffodils, we weep to see Until the hasting day Has run But to the Even-song, And, having prayed together, we We have short time to stay as you We die, As your hours do, and dry Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning's dew A mist of roses blowing For grey dust in the street. Pink snow upon the branches, Upon the dreary town. A rain, a shower of roses, Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 1 W Bluebells HERE the bluebells and the wind are, Fairies in a ring I spied, Where the primrose and the dew are- Walter de la Mare. |