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.
Ariel’s Song From The Tempest
Where the bee sucks there suck I:
In a cowslips bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry,
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
Where the bee sucks there suck I:
In a cowslips bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry,
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
Song on a May Morning
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
John Milton (1608 – 1674)
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
John Milton (1608 – 1674)
Magdalen Walks
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass , the of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth.
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rosebud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Til it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green
And the gloom of the wytch-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing a-down the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.
Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass , the of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth.
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rosebud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Til it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green
And the gloom of the wytch-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing a-down the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.
Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)
Forenoon
Soft as the whisper shut within a shell,
The far sea rustles white along the sand,
A tiny breeze, blown wanton from the land,
Teases it into dimples visible;
A dream of blue, the Fife hills sink and swell;
The large light quivers, and from strand to strand
A vast content seems breathing to expand;
And the deep heaven smiles down a sleepy spell.
Dark bathers bob; the girders of the pier
Stand softened forth against the quiet blue;
Dogs bark; the wading children take their pleasure;
A horse comes charging round, and I can hear
The gallops’s wild waltz-rhythm, falling thro’,
Change to the trot’s deliberate polka-measure.
William Earnest Henley (1849 – 1903)
Soft as the whisper shut within a shell,
The far sea rustles white along the sand,
A tiny breeze, blown wanton from the land,
Teases it into dimples visible;
A dream of blue, the Fife hills sink and swell;
The large light quivers, and from strand to strand
A vast content seems breathing to expand;
And the deep heaven smiles down a sleepy spell.
Dark bathers bob; the girders of the pier
Stand softened forth against the quiet blue;
Dogs bark; the wading children take their pleasure;
A horse comes charging round, and I can hear
The gallops’s wild waltz-rhythm, falling thro’,
Change to the trot’s deliberate polka-measure.
William Earnest Henley (1849 – 1903)
All Last Night
All last night I had quiet
In a fragrant dream and warm:
She had become my Sabbath,
And round my neck, her arm.
I knew the warmth with dreaming;
The fragrance, I suppose,
Was her hair about me,
Or else she wore a rose.
Her hair, I think; for likest
Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring
Loitering down wet woodways
Treads it sauntering.
No light, nor any speaking;
Fragrant only and warm.
Enough to know my lodging,
The white Sabbath of her arm.
Lascelles Abercrombie (1881 – 1938)
All last night I had quiet
In a fragrant dream and warm:
She had become my Sabbath,
And round my neck, her arm.
I knew the warmth with dreaming;
The fragrance, I suppose,
Was her hair about me,
Or else she wore a rose.
Her hair, I think; for likest
Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring
Loitering down wet woodways
Treads it sauntering.
No light, nor any speaking;
Fragrant only and warm.
Enough to know my lodging,
The white Sabbath of her arm.
Lascelles Abercrombie (1881 – 1938)
June
Innumerable bees are fumbling
fingerstall foxgloves;
skimming sweet williams,
the crepe skirts of paper-thin poppies
can-canning along the path.
I hear the descant of a thrush,
smell the fragrance of lavender.
Under the apple boughs
on the lawn, a small girl
in a pink gingham dress dances;
a wildness of summer in her limbs
as she skips and spins,
the wind catching the full blown
peony of her skirt.
Denise Bennett (1950
Innumerable bees are fumbling
fingerstall foxgloves;
skimming sweet williams,
the crepe skirts of paper-thin poppies
can-canning along the path.
I hear the descant of a thrush,
smell the fragrance of lavender.
Under the apple boughs
on the lawn, a small girl
in a pink gingham dress dances;
a wildness of summer in her limbs
as she skips and spins,
the wind catching the full blown
peony of her skirt.
Denise Bennett (1950
Walking
Walking,
I stare,
At the ground,
To find a path,
That's safe and sound.
Walking,
I stare,
At the sky,
For deep at heart,
I wish to fly.
Jim Murray (1967 --
Walking,
I stare,
At the ground,
To find a path,
That's safe and sound.
Walking,
I stare,
At the sky,
For deep at heart,
I wish to fly.
Jim Murray (1967 --
Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2024. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2024. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
