34 Spring poems

Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake or crystal stream; But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth, And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee. Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring In triumph to the world the youthful Spring. The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May. Now all things smile, only my love doth lour; Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold. The ox, which lately did for shelter fly Into the stall, doth now securely lie In open fields; and love no more is made By the fireside, but in the cooler shade Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep Under a sycamore, and all things keep Time with the season; only she doth carry June in her eyes, in her heart January.

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s 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! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 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!

I carry my spikes and step on the field an hour ahead of the others. Last day of March with April offering tickets for the new season. I'm full of sun on wet grass, in love with blistered benches. A sparrow sits on the backstop, watching, ready to dart if I catch its eye. I drop my bag on home plate and swirl my foot in the dust the way my cousin does with his fingers on the skin of a drum head. Next year he'll be released with the others who spent mornings breaking windows and trashing vacation homes like drunks in the right field bleachers. Here, I'm alone with a sparrow and the smell of a baseball morning settling around me like a comforter. I start trotting to first base, the ankles loosening, then the knees, as the dust begins to lift into the breaking light. Around second and third I stretch my arms in a rotary motion ready to fly. A hand waves back from a passing car, someone who knows me or remembers rising one morning when the game of who you are is played out in your mind, and around you a stadium full of fans begs you to do what you usually do in the clutch. The bat I pull from the bag for the first time is my father's Louisville Slugger, thirty-three inches, wood barrel. I thought enough time had passed, the attic dust hard in the grooves. I stroke it slowly like a weapon you love to touch but would never use. He hit .304 at Omaha the season he was drafted, all-star rookie-of-the-year. He said we'd join him soon. Then that other draft. He would have been here. I swear he would. The silence feels oppressive now. I dig for a scuffed ball and throw it up, shoulder high, but let it fall. A natural hitter, my father said, holding my hands. I grip the tar-stained handle. Tears blur the wall that's so far away it looks warped. I aim for marrow deep inside, April hungry for the kill.

As rising from the vegetable World My Theme ascends, with equal Wing ascend, My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the Woods Invite you forth in all your gayest Trim. Lend me your Song, ye Nightingales! oh pour The mazy-running Soul of Melody Into my varied Verse! while I deduce, From the first Note the hollow Cuckoo sings, The Symphony of Spring, and touch a Theme Unknown to Fame, the Passion of the Groves. When first the Soul of Love is sent abroad, Warm thro the vital Air, and on the Heart Harmonious seizes, the gay Troops begin, In gallant Thought, to plume the painted Wing; And try again the long-forgotten Strain, At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows The soft Infusion prevalent, and wide, Than, all alive, at once their Joy o’erflows In Musick unconfin’d. Up-springs the Lark, Shrill-voic’d, and loud, the Messenger of Morn; Ere yet the Shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning Clouds, and from their Haunts Calls up the tuneful Nations. Every Copse Deep-tangled, Tree irregular, and Bush Bending with dewy Moisture, o’er the Heads Of the coy Quiristers that lodge within, Are prodigal of harmony. The Thrush And Wood-lark, o’er the kind contending Throng Superior heard, run thro’ the sweetest Length Of Notes; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in Thought Elate, to make her Night excel their Day. The Black-bird whistles from the thorny Brake; The mellow Bullfinch answers from the Grove: Nor are the Linnets, o’er the flow’ring Furze Pour’d out profusely, silent. Join’d to these Innumerous Songsters, in the freshening Shade Of new-sprung Leaves, their Modulations mix Mellifluous. The Jay, the Rook, the Daw, And each harsh Pipe discordant heard alone, Aid the full Concert: while the Stock-dove breathes A melancholy Murmur thro’ the whole. ’Tis Love creates their Melody, and all This Waste of Music is the Voice of Love; That even to Birds, and Beasts, the tender Arts Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind Try every winning way inventive Love Can dictate, and in Courtship to their Mates Pour forth their little Souls. First, wide around, With distant Awe, in airy Rings they rove, Endeavouring by a thousand Tricks to catch The cunning, conscious, half-averted Glance Of their regardless Charmer. Should she seem Softening the least Approvance to bestow, Their Colours burnish, and by Hope inspir’d, They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck, Retire disorder’d; then again approach; In fond rotation spread the spotted Wing, And shiver every Feather with Desire. Connubial Leagues agreed, to the deep Woods They haste away, all as their Fancy leads, Pleasure, or Food, or secret Safety prompts; That Nature’s great Command may be obey’d, Nor all the sweet Sensations they perceive Indulg’d in vain. Some to the Holly-Hedge Nestling repair, and to the Thicket some; Some to the rude Protection of the Thorn Commit their feeble Offspring. The cleft Tree Offers its kind Concealment to a Few, Their Food its Insects, and its Moss their Nests. Others apart far in the grassy Dale, Or roughening Waste, their humble Texture weave. But most in woodland Solitudes delight, In unfrequented Glooms, or shaggy Banks, Steep, and divided by a babbling Brook, Whose Murmurs soothe them all the live-long Day, When by kind Duty fix’d. Among the Roots Of Hazel, pendant o’er the plaintive Stream, They frame the first Foundation of their Domes; Dry Sprigs of Trees, in artful Fabrick laid, And bound with Clay together. Now ’tis nought But restless Hurry thro the busy Air, Beat by unnumer’d Wings. The Swallow sweeps The slimy Pool, to build his hanging House Intent. And often, from the careless Back Of Herds and Flocks, a thousand tugging Bills Pluck Hair and Wool; and oft, when unobserv’d, Steal from the Barn a Straw: till soft and warm, Clean, and compleat, their Habitation grows. As thus the patient Dam assiduous sits, Not to be tempted from her tender Task, Or by sharp Hunger, or by smooth Delight, Tho the whole loosen’d Spring around Her blows, Her sympathizing Lover takes his Stand High on th’ opponent Bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious Time away; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits To pick the scanty Meal. Th’ appointed Time With pious Toil fulfill’d, the callow Young, Warm’d and expanded into perfect Life, Their brittle Bondage break, and come to Light, A helpless Family, demanding Food With constant Clamour. O what Passions then, What melting Sentiments of kindly Care, On the new Parents seize! Away they fly Affectionate, and undesiring bear The most delicious Morsel to their Young, Which equally distributed, again The Search begins. Even so a gentle Pair, By Fortune sunk, but form’d of generous Mold, And charm’d with Cares beyond the vulgar Breast, In some lone Cott amid the distant Woods, Sustain’d alone by providential Heaven , Oft, as they weeping eye their infant Train, Check their own Appetites and give them all. Nor Toil alone they scorn: exalting Love, By the great Father of the Spring inspir’d, Gives instant Courage to the fearful Race, And to the simple Art. With stealthy Wing, Should some rude Foot their woody Haunts molest, Amid a neighbouring Bush they silent drop, And whirring thence, as if alarm’d, deceive Th’ unfeeling School-Boy. Hence, around the Head Of wandering Swain, the white-wing’d Plover wheels Her sounding Flight, and then directly on In long Excursion skims the level Lawn, To tempt him from her Nest. The Wild-Duck, hence, O’er the rough Moss, and o’er the trackless Waste The Heath-Hen flutters, (pious Fraud!) to lead The hot pursuing Spaniel far astray. Be not the Muse asham’d, here to bemoan Her Brothers of the Grove, by tyrant Man Inhuman caught, and in the narrow Cage From Liberty confin’d, and boundless Air. Dull are the pretty Slaves, their Plumage dull, Ragged, and all its brightening Lustre lost; Nor is that sprightly Wildness in their Notes, Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the Beech. Oh then, ye Friends of Love and Love-taught Song, Spare the soft Tribes, this barbarous Art forbear! If on your Bosom Innocence can win, Music engage, or Piety persuade. But let not chief the Nightingale lament Her ruin’d Care, too delicately fram’d To brook the harsh Confinement of the Cage. Oft when, returning with her loaded Bill, Th’ astonish’d Mother finds a vacant Nest, By the hard Hand of unrelenting Clowns Robb’d, to the Ground the vain Provision falls; Her Pinions ruffle, and low-drooping scarce Can bear the Mourner to the poplar Shade; Where, all abandon’d to Despair, she sings Her Sorrows thro the Night; and, on the Bough, Sole-sitting, still at every dying Fall Takes up again her lamentable Strain Of winding Woe; till wide around the Woods Sigh to her Song, and with her Wail resound. But now the feather’d Youth their former Bounds, Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their Wings, Demand the free Possession of the Sky. This one glad Office more, and then dissolves Parental Love at once, now needless grown. Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain. ’Tis on some Evening, sunny, grateful, mild, When nought but Balm is breathing thro the Woods, With yellow Lustre bright, that the new Tribes Visit the spacious Heavens, and look abroad On Nature’s Common, far as they can see, Or wing, their Range, and Pasture. O’er the Boughs Dancing about, still at the giddy Verge Their Resolution fails; their Pinions till, In loose Libration stretch’d, to trust the Void Trembling refuse: till down before them fly The Parent-Guides, and chide, exhort, command, Or push them off. The surging Air receives The Plumy Burden; and their self-taught Wings Winnow the waving Element. On Ground Alighted, bolder up again they lead, Farther and farther on, the lengthening Flight; Till vanish’d every Fear, and every Power Rouz’d into Life and Action, light in Air Th’ acquitted Parents see their soaring Race, And once rejoicing never know them more.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

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 between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.

Get up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne Upon her wings presents the god unshorne. See how Aurora throwes her faire Fresh-quilted colours through the aire: Get up, sweet-Slug-a-bed, and see The Dew-bespangling Herbe and Tree. Each Flower has wept, and bow'd toward the East, Above an houre since; yet you not drest, Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the Birds have Mattens seyd, And sung their thankful Hymnes: 'tis sin, Nay, profanation to keep in, When as a thousand Virgins on this day, Spring, sooner than the Lark, to fetch in May. Rise; and put on your Foliage, and be seene To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and greene; And sweet as Flora. Take no care For Jewels for your Gowne, or Haire: Feare not; the leaves will strew Gemms in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the Day has kept, Against you come, some Orient Pearls unwept: Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the Dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the Eastern hill Retires himselfe, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be briefe in praying: Few Beads are best, when once we goe a Maying. Come, my Corinna, come; and comming, marke How each field turns a street; each street a Parke Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how Devotion gives each House a Bough, Or Branch: Each Porch, each doore, ere this, An Arke a Tabernacle is Made up of white-thorn neatly enterwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street, And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obay The Proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying. There's not a budding Boy, or Girle, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deale of Youth, ere this, is come Back, and with White-thorn laden home. Some have dispatcht their Cakes and Creame, Before that we have left to dreame: And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted Troth, And chose their Priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kisse, both odde and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, Loves Firmament: Many a jest told of the Keyes betraying This night, and Locks pickt, yet w'are not a Maying. Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime; And take the harmlesse follie of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short; and our dayes run As fast away as do's the Sunne: And as a vapour, or a drop of raine Once lost, can ne'r be found againe: So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endlesse night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying; Come, my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.

The optimists among us taking heart because it is spring skip along attending their meetings signing their e-mail petitions marching with their satiric signs singing their we shall overcome songs posting their pungent twitters and blogs believing in a better world for no good reason I envy them said the old woman The seasons go round they go round and around said the tulip dancing among her friends in their brown bed in the sun in the April breeze under a maple canopy that was also dancing only with greater motions casting greater shadows and the grass hardly stirring What a concerto of good stinks said the dog trotting along Riverside Drive in the early spring afternoon sniffing this way and that how gratifying the cellos of the river the tubas of the traffic the trombones of the leafing elms with the legato of my rivals’ piss at their feet and the leftover meat and grease singing along in all the wastebaskets

It is snowing in southwest Michigan. Such weather is unusual so late. The trees are squirting buds that advocate For green profusions that yesterday began To grunt and poke and strain toward full-blown spring. Now fleeced, the trees are January stark. Though clocks, sprung forward, hedge against the dark, We hear the arias our miseries sing When darkness is a slave to all that white. If global warming is the fangs of doom I see its poison wafting, from this room. The future will be mottled if not bright. Perhaps I’ll die before the killing trend. I hear my children’s voices on this wind.

Oh, how the wind howls, howls the blossoms from the boughs; Oh how the boughs bend, bend and willow to the ground; Oh, how the ground wells, wells with blossoms blown to hills; Oh, how the hills sound, sound a whisper pink and loud.