Our spring libraryA selection of poems that we think are perfect to read in spring
Carpe Diem
Build not on to-morrow, But seize on to-day! From no future borrow, The present to pay. Wait not any longer Thy work to begin; The worker grows stronger,— Be steadfast and win! Forbode not new sorrow— Bear that of to-day, And trust that the morrow Shall chase it away. The task of the present Be sure to fulfil; If sad, or if pleasant, Be true to it still. God sendeth us sorrow And cloudeth our day; His sun on the morrow Shines bright on our way. Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862). Happy the Man
Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or rain or shine The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. John Dryden (1631-1700) I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth (1770-1850) March
Now I know that Spring will come again, Perhaps to-morrow: however late I've patience After this night following on such a day. While still my temples ached from the cold burning Of hail and wind, and still the primroses Torn by the hail were covered up in it, The sun filled earth and heaven with a great light And a tenderness, almost warmth, where the hail dripped, As if the mighty sun wept tears of joy. But 'twas too late for warmth. The sunset piled Mountains on mountains of snow and ice in the west: Somewhere among their folds the wind was lost, And yet 'twas cold, and though I knew that Spring Would come again, I knew it had not come, That it was lost too in those mountains chill. What did the thrushes know? Rain, snow, sleet, hail, Had kept them quiet as the primroses. They had but an hour to sing. On boughs they sang, On gates, on ground; they sang while they changed perches And while they fought, if they remembered to fight: So earnest were they to pack into that hour Their unwilling hoard of song before the moon Grew brighter than the clouds. Then 'twas no time For singing merely. So they could keep off silence And night, they cared not what they sang or screamed; Whether 'twas hoarse or sweet or fierce or soft; And to me all was sweet: they could do no wrong. Something they knew--I also, while they sang And after. Not till night had half its stars And never a cloud, was I aware of silence Stained with all that hour's songs, a silence Saying that Spring returns, perhaps to-morrow. Edward Thomas (1878-1917). March the 3rd
Here again (she said) is March the third And twelve hours singing for the bird 'Twixt dawn and dusk, from half past six To half past six, never unheard. 'Tis Sunday, and the church-bells end With the birds' songs. I think they blend Better than in the same fair days That shall pronounce the Winter's end. Do men mark, and none dares say, How it may shift and long delay, Somewhere before the first of Spring, But never fails, this singing day? When it falls on Sunday, bells Are a wild natural voice that dwells On hillsides; but the birds' songs have The holiness gone from the bells. This day unpromised is more dear Than all the named days of the year When seasonable sweets come in, Since now we know how lucky we are. Edward Thomas (1878-1917). Robin
The robin Enters stage right In swift and measured flight; Perching close by; Haunched back, taught as a trap; Haughty to view the scene. Or in the wings From high in a tall tree, A gleaming glance of russet red On springs greening branch, Trilling to try its territory Swelling with sweet sweeping song Jet black eyes, darting; Always sharply watching; A passive part, biding for a buried cue. Let others dig the muddy plot: Stay set to steal a line of luscious worth - A soft and tasty morsel from the earth. Michael Lee (our Founder 1932-2012) . Tall Nettles
Tall nettles cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough Long worn out, and the roller made of stone: Only the elm butt tops the nettles now. This corner of the farmyard I like most: 5 As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower. Edward Thomas (1878-1917) To My Dear and Loving Husban
If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee. If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me, ye women, if you can. I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold, Or all the riches that the East doth hold. My love is such that rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee give recompense. Thy love is such I can no way repay; The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray. Then while we live, in love let’s so persever, That when we live no more, we may live ever. Mary Bradstreet (1612-1672) To the Rev. Mr Newton
An invitation into the Country The swallows in their torpid state Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait The call of early Spring. The keenest frost that binds the stream, The wildest wind that blows, Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, Secure of their repose. But man, all feeling and awake, The gloomy scene surveys; With present ills his heart must ache, And pant for brighter days. Old Winter, halting o'er the mead, Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, And whispers your return. Then April, with her sister May, Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours. And if a tear that speaks regret Of happier times, appear, A glimpse of joy, that we have met, Shall shine, and dry the tear. William Cooper (1731-1800) |