Our latest spring poetry selection
Our poetry is chosen from the work of both well-known and new poets, and assessed by a practising psychotherapist for suitability for patients waiting to see their doctor. We hope you enjoy our latest selection.
Sonnet XXXV.
Spring
In April’s gilded morn when south winds blow,
And gently shake the hawthorn’s silver crown,
Wafting its scent the forest-glade adown,
The dewy shelter of the bounding Doe,
Then, under trees, soft tufts of primrose show
Their palely-yellowing flowers;— to the moist Sun
Blue harebells peep, while cowslips stand unblown,
Plighted to riper May;— and lavish flow
The Lark’s loud carols in the wilds of air.
O! Not to Nature’s glad Enthusiast cling
Avarice, and pride. — Thro’ her now blooming sphere
Charm’d as he roves, his thoughts enraptur’d spring
To Him, who gives frail Man’s appointed time
These cheering hours of promise, and of prime.
Anna Seward (1742 - 1809
Spring
In April’s gilded morn when south winds blow,
And gently shake the hawthorn’s silver crown,
Wafting its scent the forest-glade adown,
The dewy shelter of the bounding Doe,
Then, under trees, soft tufts of primrose show
Their palely-yellowing flowers;— to the moist Sun
Blue harebells peep, while cowslips stand unblown,
Plighted to riper May;— and lavish flow
The Lark’s loud carols in the wilds of air.
O! Not to Nature’s glad Enthusiast cling
Avarice, and pride. — Thro’ her now blooming sphere
Charm’d as he roves, his thoughts enraptur’d spring
To Him, who gives frail Man’s appointed time
These cheering hours of promise, and of prime.
Anna Seward (1742 - 1809
Spring: In Four Sonnets
I
There is a stir abroad in earth and sky.
The busy clouds, now huddling, now dispersing,
Seem with the windy messengers conversing.
The landscape is alive: the shadows fly,
Coursed o’er the uplands by the hunter breeze.
The shifting lights are colour to the eye,
Clothing with warmth the sober scenery,
The russet corn-lands and the crisp, bare trees.
A dotting scarce perceptible, thrown out
In tints of livelier brown, on hedge and bough,
Gives mystic signs. A spirit is about,
Felt through all Nature’s veins; and all things now,
Swelling with vernal hope, are ready quite,
Waiting His word, who said, Let there be light.
Josiah Conder (1789 - 1855)
I
There is a stir abroad in earth and sky.
The busy clouds, now huddling, now dispersing,
Seem with the windy messengers conversing.
The landscape is alive: the shadows fly,
Coursed o’er the uplands by the hunter breeze.
The shifting lights are colour to the eye,
Clothing with warmth the sober scenery,
The russet corn-lands and the crisp, bare trees.
A dotting scarce perceptible, thrown out
In tints of livelier brown, on hedge and bough,
Gives mystic signs. A spirit is about,
Felt through all Nature’s veins; and all things now,
Swelling with vernal hope, are ready quite,
Waiting His word, who said, Let there be light.
Josiah Conder (1789 - 1855)
XIV.
A Spring Morning
The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,
In freshness breathing over hills and dells;
O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings,
And meads washed fragrant by their laughing
springs.
Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free
From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.
The happy time of singing birds is come,
And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home;
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,
And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.
The foxes play around their dens, and bark
In joy’s excess, ‘mid woodland shadows dark.
The flowers join lips below; the leaves above;
And every sound that meets the ear is Love.
John Clare (1793 - 1864)
A Spring Morning
The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,
In freshness breathing over hills and dells;
O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings,
And meads washed fragrant by their laughing
springs.
Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free
From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.
The happy time of singing birds is come,
And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home;
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,
And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.
The foxes play around their dens, and bark
In joy’s excess, ‘mid woodland shadows dark.
The flowers join lips below; the leaves above;
And every sound that meets the ear is Love.
John Clare (1793 - 1864)
From The Hawthorn Bough in the Workroom
It is but a bough of the wilding May,
A common wayside blossom fair,
But it come to our hearts with a cordial breath
Of meadow freshness and summer air,
And we lose our sense of the dreary street,
The whirling wheels, and the dusty glare;
We tread green slopes where the cowslip rings,
With the nodding blue bell, a faëry chime;
The far-off azure has clouds of light
Like silver barks from the happy clime;
And we sing with the thrush as we used to sing.
Eliza S. Craven Green (1808 - 1866)
It is but a bough of the wilding May,
A common wayside blossom fair,
But it come to our hearts with a cordial breath
Of meadow freshness and summer air,
And we lose our sense of the dreary street,
The whirling wheels, and the dusty glare;
We tread green slopes where the cowslip rings,
With the nodding blue bell, a faëry chime;
The far-off azure has clouds of light
Like silver barks from the happy clime;
And we sing with the thrush as we used to sing.
Eliza S. Craven Green (1808 - 1866)
Evening. (A close view)
Star-shadows dot our tiny lake,
And, sparkling in between
The dusky fringe the larches make,
Soft stars themselves are seen;
Our boat and we, not half awake,
Go dreaming down the pond,
Whilst slowly calls the Rail, ‘Crake-crake,’
From meadow-flats beyond.
The happy, circling, bounded view
Embraces us with home;
But up, through heaven’s star-budding blue,
Our souls are free to roam;
Whence for this vale of scented dew
That makes the earth so sweet,
A touch of astral brightness too,
A piece— that is complete.
William Allingham (1824 - 1889)
Star-shadows dot our tiny lake,
And, sparkling in between
The dusky fringe the larches make,
Soft stars themselves are seen;
Our boat and we, not half awake,
Go dreaming down the pond,
Whilst slowly calls the Rail, ‘Crake-crake,’
From meadow-flats beyond.
The happy, circling, bounded view
Embraces us with home;
But up, through heaven’s star-budding blue,
Our souls are free to roam;
Whence for this vale of scented dew
That makes the earth so sweet,
A touch of astral brightness too,
A piece— that is complete.
William Allingham (1824 - 1889)
A Spring Carol
I
Blythe friend! Blythe throstle! Is it thou,
Whom I at last again hear sing,
Perched on thy old accustomed bough,
Poet-prophet of the Spring?
Yes! Singing as thou oft has sung,
I can see thee there among
The clustered branches of my leafless oak;
Where, thy plumage gray as it,
Thou mightst unsuspected sit,
Didst thou not thyself betray
With thy penetrating lay,
Swelling thy mottled breast at each triumphant stroke.
Wherefore warble half concealed,
When thy notes are shaft and shield,
And no hand that lives would slay
Singer of such a roundelay?
Telling of thy presence thus,
Be nor coy nor timorous!
Sing loud! Sing loud!
And let thy song
Usurp the air - twixt earth and sky:
Let it soar and sink and rally,
Ripple low along the valley,
Break against the fir-trees high,
Oft times pausing, never dying,
While we lean where fancy bids,
Listening, with half-closèd lids,
Unto the self-same chant, most sweet, most satisfying.
Alfred Austin (1835 - 1913)
I
Blythe friend! Blythe throstle! Is it thou,
Whom I at last again hear sing,
Perched on thy old accustomed bough,
Poet-prophet of the Spring?
Yes! Singing as thou oft has sung,
I can see thee there among
The clustered branches of my leafless oak;
Where, thy plumage gray as it,
Thou mightst unsuspected sit,
Didst thou not thyself betray
With thy penetrating lay,
Swelling thy mottled breast at each triumphant stroke.
Wherefore warble half concealed,
When thy notes are shaft and shield,
And no hand that lives would slay
Singer of such a roundelay?
Telling of thy presence thus,
Be nor coy nor timorous!
Sing loud! Sing loud!
And let thy song
Usurp the air - twixt earth and sky:
Let it soar and sink and rally,
Ripple low along the valley,
Break against the fir-trees high,
Oft times pausing, never dying,
While we lean where fancy bids,
Listening, with half-closèd lids,
Unto the self-same chant, most sweet, most satisfying.
Alfred Austin (1835 - 1913)
Book I.
From IV.
The cliff-top has a carpet
Of lilac gold and green:
The blue sky bounds the ocean
The white clouds scud between.
A flock of gulls are wheeling
And wailing round my seat;
Above my head the heaven,
The sea beneath my feet.
Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930)
From IV.
The cliff-top has a carpet
Of lilac gold and green:
The blue sky bounds the ocean
The white clouds scud between.
A flock of gulls are wheeling
And wailing round my seat;
Above my head the heaven,
The sea beneath my feet.
Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930)
Evening in Wales.
Laughing at our cold despair,
Spring is come: laud we her name!
Out into this gentler air,
Musical with breath that came
Over seas and islands, where
Suns have fragrance in their flame:
Come with me, and let soft wind
Soothe the chambers of your mind.
Starrier anemones,
Than rich southern woods enfold;
Heavenlier coloured primroses,
Than fair southern maids behold;
Hushed by Alun’s cadences,
Kinglier marsh marigold:
Seeing these, be proud to praise
Wales with all her flowered ways.
With no grace of Cyclad peaks,
Gleaming crowns for seas of light;
Moel Fammau darkling seeks
Converse with the coming night:
Purple shadowed, how she breaks
The red splendours, out of sight
Fading, until dewy morn
Bid them with new fire be born!
Lionel Johnson (1867 - 1902)
Laughing at our cold despair,
Spring is come: laud we her name!
Out into this gentler air,
Musical with breath that came
Over seas and islands, where
Suns have fragrance in their flame:
Come with me, and let soft wind
Soothe the chambers of your mind.
Starrier anemones,
Than rich southern woods enfold;
Heavenlier coloured primroses,
Than fair southern maids behold;
Hushed by Alun’s cadences,
Kinglier marsh marigold:
Seeing these, be proud to praise
Wales with all her flowered ways.
With no grace of Cyclad peaks,
Gleaming crowns for seas of light;
Moel Fammau darkling seeks
Converse with the coming night:
Purple shadowed, how she breaks
The red splendours, out of sight
Fading, until dewy morn
Bid them with new fire be born!
Lionel Johnson (1867 - 1902)
Hugging Heaney
I did not expect such an impulse, it’s not what I do,
It bypassed the brain.
There was Ireland’s new Laureate
Standing alone that Saturday morning,
Waiting for the Holyhead train.
I’d not met him, not been to his readings,
Loved his poems, would not see him again,
But there on that platform,
I just had to do it, the skies over Newport darkening with rain.
May I hug you? Was all I could offer,
He smiled, arms stretched out to enfold.
And we hugged till his train came and took him.
Him, white haired and solid,
Me, grinning and bold.
Then I watched as his carriage completely receded
Realising suddenly that that was my train.
May I hug you? was good if unusual
Out of all the choices I’ve made.
Some years later I read that the last words he uttered
Were: ‘Noli Timere,’ do not be afraid”.
Anne Macdonald (1943 - )
I did not expect such an impulse, it’s not what I do,
It bypassed the brain.
There was Ireland’s new Laureate
Standing alone that Saturday morning,
Waiting for the Holyhead train.
I’d not met him, not been to his readings,
Loved his poems, would not see him again,
But there on that platform,
I just had to do it, the skies over Newport darkening with rain.
May I hug you? Was all I could offer,
He smiled, arms stretched out to enfold.
And we hugged till his train came and took him.
Him, white haired and solid,
Me, grinning and bold.
Then I watched as his carriage completely receded
Realising suddenly that that was my train.
May I hug you? was good if unusual
Out of all the choices I’ve made.
Some years later I read that the last words he uttered
Were: ‘Noli Timere,’ do not be afraid”.
Anne Macdonald (1943 - )
Editor: Helen Lee
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2026. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2026. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
