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.
“The Spring Comes Softly From The South Beguiled”
The Spring comes softly from the South beguiled,
Bearing a garland for my Love to wear;
Laughing he cometh like a little child
That joys to find a world so passing fair:
With heather-bells and kingcups everywhere,
And honeysuckle clusters, — he hath piled
The sweet thyme budding on the mountain bare,
The fragrant meadow-blossom undefiled.
And I go singing on the uplands wild,
So blithely singing in the morning air,—
The Spring comes softly from the South beguiled,
Bearing a garland for my Love to wear.
Samuel Waddington (1844-1923)
The Spring comes softly from the South beguiled,
Bearing a garland for my Love to wear;
Laughing he cometh like a little child
That joys to find a world so passing fair:
With heather-bells and kingcups everywhere,
And honeysuckle clusters, — he hath piled
The sweet thyme budding on the mountain bare,
The fragrant meadow-blossom undefiled.
And I go singing on the uplands wild,
So blithely singing in the morning air,—
The Spring comes softly from the South beguiled,
Bearing a garland for my Love to wear.
Samuel Waddington (1844-1923)
Fragment 63
The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down
His cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sun
Had swarthed about with lion-brown
Before the Spring was done.
His locks like all a ravel-rope’s-end,
With hempen strands in spray --
Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks — fall’n off their ranks,
Swung down at a disarray.
Or like a juicy and jostling shock
Of bluebells sheaved in May
Or wind-long fleeces on the flock
A day off shearing day.
Then over his turnèd temples — here --
Was a rose, or failing that,
Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clear
For a beauty-bow to his hat,
And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled
diamonds
Through the sieve of the straw of the plait.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 - 1889)
The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down
His cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sun
Had swarthed about with lion-brown
Before the Spring was done.
His locks like all a ravel-rope’s-end,
With hempen strands in spray --
Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks — fall’n off their ranks,
Swung down at a disarray.
Or like a juicy and jostling shock
Of bluebells sheaved in May
Or wind-long fleeces on the flock
A day off shearing day.
Then over his turnèd temples — here --
Was a rose, or failing that,
Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clear
For a beauty-bow to his hat,
And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled
diamonds
Through the sieve of the straw of the plait.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 - 1889)
Spring! The Light is Stronger, the Air is Shuddering
Spring!
The light is stronger, the air is shuddering,
The sky is smiling through sun-clouds that shall be
Showers.
And the grass is caught imagining
Flowers.
Michael Field (1846-1914)
Spring!
The light is stronger, the air is shuddering,
The sky is smiling through sun-clouds that shall be
Showers.
And the grass is caught imagining
Flowers.
Michael Field (1846-1914)
Witch Hazel
Grey sky; grey lane;
A flaw of rain;
Loud crows midway in air,
That go, and leave it bare.
But whence,
By the torn fence,
This hushèd thing with shape of flame?
And whither came,
This yellow gust blown down the grass
Of Hallowmas?
Holds the old Year, remembering,
A moment of last spring?
Or, far beyond this weather vext,
A moment of the next?
Holds he the twain in one,
The April gone, the April not begun? --
In these dim stalks, wind-lapped and bright,
Driven all one way like candlelight?
Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856-1935)
Grey sky; grey lane;
A flaw of rain;
Loud crows midway in air,
That go, and leave it bare.
But whence,
By the torn fence,
This hushèd thing with shape of flame?
And whither came,
This yellow gust blown down the grass
Of Hallowmas?
Holds the old Year, remembering,
A moment of last spring?
Or, far beyond this weather vext,
A moment of the next?
Holds he the twain in one,
The April gone, the April not begun? --
In these dim stalks, wind-lapped and bright,
Driven all one way like candlelight?
Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856-1935)
March
The March wind rises through the skies,
His great wings rustling as he flies,
And downward sweeps o’er plain and hill
The sunshine to the daffodil.
Dollie Radford (1858-1920)
The March wind rises through the skies,
His great wings rustling as he flies,
And downward sweeps o’er plain and hill
The sunshine to the daffodil.
Dollie Radford (1858-1920)
When Punctual Dawn
When punctual dawn came o’er the hill,
In orange veiled and tender blue,
Wan in the dark field gleamed the rill,
The dusky hedge was gemmed with dew.
And patient sheep from folded feet
Rose one by one, alert for food,
And one by one, so small and sweet,
The flattened grass-stems stirred and stood.
And I too rose, and stepping down
Drank deep the invigorating air,
And scanned the little sleeping town.
And thanked my God that I was there.
A.C. Benson (1862-1925)
When punctual dawn came o’er the hill,
In orange veiled and tender blue,
Wan in the dark field gleamed the rill,
The dusky hedge was gemmed with dew.
And patient sheep from folded feet
Rose one by one, alert for food,
And one by one, so small and sweet,
The flattened grass-stems stirred and stood.
And I too rose, and stepping down
Drank deep the invigorating air,
And scanned the little sleeping town.
And thanked my God that I was there.
A.C. Benson (1862-1925)
Buds
The raining hour is done,
And, threaded on the bough,
The may-buds in the sun
Are shining emeralds now.
As transitory these
As things of April will,
Yet, trembling in the trees,
Is briefer beauty still.
For, flowering from the sky
Upon an April day,
Are silver buds that lie
Amid the buds of may.
The April emeralds now,
While thrushes fill the lane.
Are linked along the bough
With silver buds of rain.
And, straightly though to earth
The buds of silver slip,
The green buds keep the mirth
Of that companionship.
John Drinkwater (1882-1937)
The raining hour is done,
And, threaded on the bough,
The may-buds in the sun
Are shining emeralds now.
As transitory these
As things of April will,
Yet, trembling in the trees,
Is briefer beauty still.
For, flowering from the sky
Upon an April day,
Are silver buds that lie
Amid the buds of may.
The April emeralds now,
While thrushes fill the lane.
Are linked along the bough
With silver buds of rain.
And, straightly though to earth
The buds of silver slip,
The green buds keep the mirth
Of that companionship.
John Drinkwater (1882-1937)
Leisure
For WH Davies who persuaded so many of us to stand and stare
Between the window and the tree
fifty starlings galloped by.
I like to think it was for me,
that sudden rush, that blur of joy.
To think! I might have poked the fire
or stood to fetch a butter knife
just at the time when sitting still
bought such delight into my life
Ian Whybrow (1942- )
For WH Davies who persuaded so many of us to stand and stare
Between the window and the tree
fifty starlings galloped by.
I like to think it was for me,
that sudden rush, that blur of joy.
To think! I might have poked the fire
or stood to fetch a butter knife
just at the time when sitting still
bought such delight into my life
Ian Whybrow (1942- )
Editor: Helen Lee
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2025. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2025. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
