Edward Morike Violets Spring Again Leaves an Azure Veil

The Abode Book of Verse, Volume iii by Burton Egbert Stevenson

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Part 2 out of 9

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What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with Apr days,
Or sadness in the summertime moons?

Bring orchis, bring the play a trick on-glove spire,
The little speedwell'southward darling bluish,
Deep tulips dashed with peppery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of burn.

O g, new-year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to flare-up a frozen bud,
And inundation a fresher throat with song.

CXV
At present fades the last long streak of snow,
Now burgeons every maze of quick
Most the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless vocal.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale,
And milkier every milky sail,
On winding stream or distant sea;

Where at present the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that alter their sky
To build and brood, that alive their lives

From land to land; and in my chest
Spring wakens too: and my regret
Go an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"THE SPRING RETURNS"

The Leap returns! What matters then that War
On the horizon like a buoy burns,
That Death ascends, human being'southward almost desired star,
That Darkness is his hope? The Spring returns!
Triumphant through the wider-arched cope
She comes, she comes, unto her tyranny,
And at her coronation are set ope
The prisons of the mind, and man is free!
The beggar-garbed or over-bent with snows,
Each mortal, long defeated, disallowed,
Feeling her affect, grows stronger limbed, and knows
The purple on his shoulders and is proud.
The Spring returns! O madness beyond sense,
Breed in our basic thine own omnipotence!

Charles Leonard Moore [1854-

"WHEN THE HOUNDS OF Spring"
Chorus from "Atalanta in Calydon"

When the hounds of spring are on winter'due south traces,
The female parent of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the brown vivid nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden near perfect, lady of light,
With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamor of waters, and with might;
Bind on thy sandals, O thou about fleet,
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet;
For the faint due east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the anxiety of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall nosotros sing to her,
Fold our easily round her knees, and cling?
O that man'south heart were as fire and could jump to her,
Burn, or the strength of the streams that spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-air current and the west-current of air sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the flavor of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the nighttime that wins;
And time remembered, is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in greenish underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling pes,
The faint fresh flame of the young twelvemonth flushes
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the anecdote-root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by nighttime,
Fleeter of human foot than the armada-pes child,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Maenad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
The wild vine slipping downwardly leaves bare
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

Vocal

Once more rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues;
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steeped in forenoon dews.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy thanks his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
Only life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan regal swims,
And everything is blest only I.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorland whistles shrill;
Wi' wild, diff, wand'ring footstep
I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and night,
Blithe waukens by the daisy'due south side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

Come up, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO SPRING

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in total choir hails thy arroyo, O Jump!

The hills tell ane another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Upward to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and allow our winds
Osculation thy perfumed garments; let u.s.a. taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick state that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy gilded crown upon her languished head,
Whose minor tresses are bound up for thee!

William Blake [1757-1827]

AN ODE ON THE SPRING

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the imperial year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of bound:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak'south thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the avidity of the oversupply,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the groovy!

Nonetheless is the toiling mitt of Care:
The panting herds repose:
Yet, hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to gustatory modality the honied spring
And bladder among the liquid apex;
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some testify their gaily-golden trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Homo:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall stop where they began.
Alike the Decorated and the Gay
But flutter through life'south little 24-hour interval,
In Fortune'south varying colors dressed:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled past Historic period, their airy trip the light fantastic
They get out, in grit to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art g?
A lonely fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plume to brandish;
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy dominicus is set up, thy jump is gone -
Nosotros frolic, while 'tis May.

Thomas Gray [1716-1771]

Bound

Bound, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things off-white,
Jump, with her aureate suns and silverish rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every wood tree
The blood is all aglee,
And in that location'southward a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Still still on every side we trace the hand
Of Wintertime in the land,
Salve where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the flavor's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find
That historic period to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's contemptuousness,
The dark-brown of Autumn corn.

Equally nevertheless the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A grand germs are groping through the gloom,
And shortly volition burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems
Appear some azure gems,
Pocket-size as might deck, upon a gala day,
The brow of a fay.

In gardens yous may note among the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And nigh the snowdrop'south tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

Merely many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks get by, earlier the enamored S
Shall buss the rose'southward mouth.

Still there'south a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of forenoon;
One almost looks to encounter the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you lot know non why,
A feeling as when eager crowds look
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and yous scarce would start,
If from a beech'due south heart
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping along, should say,
"Behold me! I am May!"

Henry Timrod [1829-1867]

THE MEADOWS IN Bound

'Tis a slow sight
To see the twelvemonth dying,
When winter winds
Gear up the yellowish woods sighing:
Sighing, oh! sighing.

When such a time cometh,
I do retire
Into an old room
Beside a bright burn down:
Oh, pile a vivid fire!

And there I sit
Reading sometime things,
Of knights and lorn damsels,
While the air current sings -
Oh, drearily sings!

I never expect out
Nor attend to the nail;
For all to be seen
Is the leaves falling fast:
Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth,
Like a cricket, sit I,
Reading of summer
And chivalry -
Gallant chivalry!

Then with an erstwhile friend
I talk of our youth!
How 'twas gladsome, only oftentimes
Foolish, forsooth:
But gladsome, gladsome!

Or to get merry
We sing some one-time rhyme,
That fabricated the woods ring once more
In summer time -
Sugariness summer time!

Then go we to smoking,
Silent and snug:
Naught passes between us,
Save a brown jug -
Sometimes!

And sometimes a tear
Will rise in each center,
Seeing the two one-time friends
So merrily -
So merrily!

And ere to bed
Go we, go we,
Down on the ashes
Nosotros kneel on the knee,
Praying together!

Thus, then, live I,
Till, 'mid all the gloom,
By heaven! the bold dominicus
Is with me in the room
Shining, shining!

Then the clouds part,
Swallows soaring between;
The spring is alive,
And the meadows are light-green!

I spring up, like mad,
Break the old pipe in twain,
And away to the meadows,
The meadows over again!

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]

THE SPRING

When wintry conditions'south all a-washed,
An' brooks practise sparkle in the zun,
An' naisy-builden rooks practice vlee
Wi' sticks toward their elem tree;
When birds do zing, an' we can zee
Upon the boughs the buds o' jump, -
Then I'm equally happy as a male monarch,
A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen.

Vor then the cowlsip's hangen bloom
A-wetted in the zunny shower,
Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' aroma,
Bezide the woods-screened graegle's bong;
Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-bluish shell,
Exercise lie in mossy nest amongst
The thorns, while they do zing their zong
At evenen in the zunsheen.

An' God do meake his win' to accident
An' rain to vall vor high an' low,
An' bid his mornen zun to rise
Vor all akin, an' groun' an' skies
Ha' colors vor the poor man'due south optics:
An' in our trials He is nearly,
To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear,
An' plough our clouds to zunsheen.

An' many times when I do vind
Things all goo wrong, an' 5'ok unkind,
To zee the happy veeden herds,
An' hear the zingen o' the birds,
Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words;
Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin
Do meake woone's soul and then night 'ithin,
When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.

William Barnes [1801-1886]

"WHEN Bound COMES Back TO ENGLAND"

When Spring comes back to England
And crowns her brows with May,
Round the merry moonlit world
She goes the greenwood way:
She throws a rose to Italian republic,
A fleur-de-lys to French republic;
Only round her regal morris-ring
The seas of England trip the light fantastic.

When Bound comes back to England
And dons her robe of green,
There'southward many a nation garlanded
Simply England is the Queen;
She's Queen, she's Queen of all the earth
Beneath the laughing sky,
For the nations get a-Maying
When they hear the New year weep -

"Come over the water to England,
My one-time honey, my new honey,
Come over the h2o to England,
In showers of flowery rain;
Come up over the water to England,
April, my true beloved;
And tell the heart of England
The Leap is here again!"

Alfred Noyes [1880-

NEW LIFE

Spring comes laughing downward the valley
All in white, from the snowfall
Where the wintertime's armies rally
Loth to go.
Beauty white her garments shower
On the globe where they pass, -
Hawthorn hedges, copse in blossom,
Daisies in the grass.
Tremulous with longings dim,
Thickets by the river's rim
Have begun to dream of green.
Every tree is loud with birds.
Bourgeon, heart, - practise thy part!
Enhance a slender stalk of words
From a root unseen.

Amelia Josephine Burr [1878-

"OVER THE WINTRY THRESHOLD"

Over the wintry threshold
Who comes with joy today,
So frail, all the same then enduring,
To triumph o'er dismay?

Ah, quick her tears are springing,
And apace they are dried,
For sorrow walks before her,
Merely gladness walks beside.

She comes with gusts of laughter, -
The music every bit of rills;
With tenderness and sweetness,
The wisdom of the hills.

Her hands are strong to comfort,
Her heart is quick to heed;
She knows the signs of sadness,
She knows the voice of demand;

In that location is no living animate being,
Nonetheless poor or small,
But she will know its problem,
And hearken to its call.

Oh, well they fare forever,
By mighty dreams possessed,
Whose hearts take lain a moment
On that eternal chest.

Elation Carman [1861-1929]

MARCH

Slayer of winter, art thou here again?
O welcome, 1000 that bring'st the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Brand April prepare for the throstle's song,
Grand starting time redresser of the wintertime's wrong!

Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June,
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,
Striving to swell the brunt of the tune
That even at present I hear thy brownish birds raise,
Unmindful of the past or coming days;
Who sing, "O joy! a new twelvemonth is begun!
What happiness to await upon the sun!"

O, what begetteth all this tempest of bliss,
But Decease himself, who, crying solemnly,
Even from the eye of sweet Forgetfulness,
Bids u.s., "Rejoice! lest pleasureless ye die.
Within a piffling time must ye go past.
Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live,
Take all the gifts that Expiry and Life may give."

William Morris [1834-1896]

SONG IN MARCH

Now are the winds nigh us in their glee,
Tossing the slender tree;
Whirling the sands about his furious motorcar,
March cometh from afar;
Breaks the sealed magic of one-time Winter's dreams,
And rends his glassy streams;
Chafing with potent arrogance, he fiercely takes
Their fetters from the lakes,
And, with a power by queenly Spring supplied,
Wakens the slumbering tide.

With a wild dear he seeks young Summer'south charms
And clasps her to his arms;
Lifting his shield between, he drives away
Former Winter from his casualty; -
The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves,
Goes howling to his caves;
And, to his northern realm compelled to wing,
Yields up the victory;
Melted are all his bands, o'erthrown his towers,
And March comes bringing flowers.

William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870]

MARCH

Blossom on the plum,
Wild wind and merry;
Leaves upon the red,
And one consume come up.

Red windy dawn,
Swift pelting and sunny;
Wild bees seeking honey,
Crocus on the backyard;
Bloom on the plum.

Grass begins to grow,
Dandelions come;
Snowdrops haste to become
Subsequently final month's snow;
Rough winds trounce and accident,
Blossom on the plum.

Nora Hopper [1871-1906]

WRITTEN IN MARCH

The Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small-scale birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The light-green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Similar an ground forces defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And at present doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping - anon - anon
There'south joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE PASSING OF MARCH

The braggart March stood in the season's door
With his wide shoulders blocking upward the way,
Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore,
And from the fringes of his kirtle gray.
Near past him April stood with tearful confront,
With violets in her hands, and in her hair
Stake, wild anemones; the fragrant lace
Half-parted from her chest, which seemed similar fair,
Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there.

She on the blusterer's arm laid one white hand,
But he would none of her soft blandishment,
Yet did she plead with tears none might withstand,
For even the fiercest hearts at last relent.
And he, at last, in ruffian tenderness,
With one swift, crushing buss her lips did greet.
Ah, poor starved center! - for that ane rude caress,
She cast her violets underneath his feet.

Robert Burns Wilson [1850-1916]

Home THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England
Now that April'south there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Circular the elm-tree bole are in tiny leafage,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bender
In England - now!

And after April, when May follows
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -
That'south the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should retrieve he never could recapture
The showtime fine devil-may-care rapture!
And though the fields await rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes afresh
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

Vocal

April, April,
Express joy thy girlish laughter;
And then, the moment afterwards,
Weep thy girlish tears!
April, that mine ears
Similar a lover greetest,
If I tell thee, sweetest,
All my hopes and fears,
April, Apr,
Laugh thy golden laughter,
But, the moment later,
Weep thy gold tears!

William Watson [1858-1935]

AN Apr ADORATION

Sang the sun ascension on an bister morn -
"Earth, be glad! An April day is born.

"Wintertime'due south done, and April'south in the skies,
Earth, look up with laughter in your optics!"

Putting off her dumb dismay of snow,
Earth bade all her unseen children abound.

Then the sound of growing in the air
Rose to God a liturgy of prayer;

And the thronged succession of the days
Uttered up to God a psalm of praise.

Laughed the running sap in every vein,
Laughed the running flurries of warm rain,

Laughed the life in every wandering root,
Laughed the tingling cells of bud and shoot.

God in all the hold of their mirth
Heard the adoration-song of Earth.

Charles Thou. D. Roberts [1860-

Sugariness WILD April

O sweet wild April
Came over the hills,
He skipped with the winds
And he tripped with the rills;
His raiment was all
Of the daffodils.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

O sweet wild April
Came down the lea,
Dancing forth
With his sisters iii:
Carnation, and Rose,
And alpine Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

O sweet wild Apr,
On pastoral quill
Came pipage in moonlight
Past hollow and colina,
In starlight at midnight,
By dingle and rill.
Sing how-do-you-do,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

Where sugariness wild April
His melody played,
Trooped cowslip, and primrose,
And iris, the maid,
And silver narcissus,
A star in the shade.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

When sweet wild April
Dipped downwards the dale,
Pale cuckoopint brightened,
And windflower trail,
And white-thorn, the wood-bride,
In virginal veil.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

When sugariness wild April
Through deep woods pressed,
Sang cuckoo to a higher place him,
And lark on his crest,
And Philomel fluttered
Close under his breast.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

O sweet wild April,
Wherever you went
The bondage of winter
Was broken and hire,
Sank elfin ice-city
And frost-goblin'south tent.
Sing hello,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

Yet sugariness wild April,
The animated, the dauntless,
Fell asleep in the fields
By a windless wave
And Jack-in-the-Pulpit
Preached over his grave.
Sing hello,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

O sweet wild Apr,
Goodbye to thee!
And a deep sweet slumber
To thy sisters 3, -
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!

William Strength Stead [18 -

SPINNING IN April

Moon in heaven's garden, among the clouds that wander,
Crescent moon and then young to see, above the April means,
Whiten, blossom not yet, not nonetheless, within the twilight yonder;
All my spinning is not done, for all the loitering days.

Oh, my heart has two wild wings that ever would be flight!
Oh, my heart's a meadow-distraction that e'er would be costless!
Well it is that I must spin until the light be dying;
Well it is the little wheel must plow all day for me!

All the loma-tops beckon, and beyond the western meadows
Something calls me always, calls me e'er, low and articulate:
A little tree as young equally I, the coming summer shadows, -
The voice of running waters that I ever thirst to hear.

Oftentime the plea of it has set my wings a-chirapsia;
Oftentimes it coaxes, as I sit in weary-wise,
Till the wild life hastens out to wild things all entreating,
And leaves me at the spinning-wheel, with dark, unseeing optics.

Josephine Preston Peabody [1874-1922]

Vocal: ON MAY MORNING

At present the bright morning-star, solar day'due south harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the stake 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 approving.
Thus nosotros salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

John Milton [1608-1674]

A MAY Burden

Though meadow-ways equally I did tread,
The corn grew in swell lustihead,
And hey! the beeches burgeoned.
Past Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
It is the month, the jolly month,
It is the jolly month of May.

God ripe the wines and corn, I say,
And wenches for the marriage-day,
And boys to teach love's comely play.
Past Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
It is the month, the jolly month,
It is the jolly month of May.

As I went down by lane and lea,
The daisies reddened so, pardie!
"Blushets!" I said, "I well do see,
By Goddes fay, past Goddes fay!
The thing ye call up of in this calendar month,
Heigho! this jolly month of May."

As down I went by rye and oats,
The blossoms smelt of kisses; throats
Of birds turned kisses into notes;
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
The buss it is a growing bloom,
I trow, this jolly calendar month of May.

God send a mouth to every kiss,
Seeing the bloom of this bliss
Past gathering doth abound, certes!
By Goddes fay, past Goddes fay!
Thy brow-garland pushed all aslant
Tells - but I tell non, wanton May!

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING

Get up, get upwardly for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
Run across how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colors through the air:
Get upward, sweet slug-a-bed, and run across
The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the due east,
Above an hour since: yet you not dressed;
Nay! not so much equally out of bed;
When all the birds have matins said
And sung their thankful hymns: '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 leaf, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and light-green,
And sugariness as Flora. Take no intendance
For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you:
Too, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come up, some orient pearls unwept;
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the nighttime,
And Titan on the eastern loma
Retires himself, or else stands nevertheless
Till you come forth. Launder, dress, exist cursory in praying:
Few beads are best, when once nosotros go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, marker
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made light-green and trimmed with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove;
Every bit if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come up, we'll abroad; and let'southward obey
The proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we accept done, past staying;
But, my Corinna, come, allow's become a-Maying.

There'south not a budding boy or daughter, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A bargain of youth, ere this, is come
Dorsum, and with white-thorn laden abode.
Some have despatched their cakes and cream
Earlier that we have left to dream:
And some have wept, and wooed and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere nosotros can cast off sloth:
Many a green gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and fifty-fifty:
Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, beloved's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks picked, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us get, while we are in our prime number,
And accept the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow one-time chop-chop, and die
Earlier we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast abroad every bit does the sun;
And, as a vapor or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne'er be constitute again:
So when or you lot or I are made
A fable, vocal, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

"SISTER, AWAKE!"

Sister, awake! shut not your eyes!
The day her lite discloses,
And the bright forenoon doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.

See the clear sun, the earth's brilliant heart,
In at our window peeping:
Lo, how he blusheth to espy
Us idle wenches sleeping!

Therefore awake! make haste, I say,
And let u.s.a., without staying,
All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the Park a-maying!

Unknown

MAY

May! queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music
Shall we amuse the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Diddled in the open up mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the light-green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipage or wire;
K hast the gilded bee
Ripened with burn down;
And many thousand more than
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy flooring
With new desire.

1000 hast thy mighty herds,
Tame and free-livers;
Doubtfulness not, thy music likewise
In the deep rivers,
And the whole plumy flight
Warbling the mean solar day and nighttime -
Up at the gates of light,
Come across, the lark quivers!

Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]

MAY

Come walk with me forth this willowed lane,
Where, similar lost coinage from some miser's shop,
The gilded dandelions more and more
Glow, as the warm sun kisses them again!
For this is May! who with a daisy chain
Leads on the laughing Hours; for now is o'er
Long winter'due south trance. No longer rise and roar
His wood-wrenching blasts. The hopeful young man,
Along the furrow, sings behind his squad;
Loud pipes the redbreast - troubadour of spring,
And song all the morning copses band;
More blue the skies in lucent lakelets gleam;
And the glad globe, caressed by murmuring showers,
Wakes like a bride, to deck herself with flowers!

Henry Sylvester Cornwell [1831-1886]

A Spring LILT

Through the argent mist
Of the blossom-spray
Trill the orioles: list
To their joyous lay!
"What in all the world, in all the world," they say,
Is one-half so sugariness, so sugariness, is half so sweet every bit May?"

"June! June! June!"
Low croon
The brown bees in the clover.
"Sweetness! sweet! sweet!"
Repeat
The robins, nested over.

Unknown

Summertime LONGINGS

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May, -
Waiting for the pleasant rambles
Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,
Scent the dewy way.
Ah! my centre is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is ill with longing,
Longing for the May, -
Longing to escape from report
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the 1000 charms belonging
To the summer's twenty-four hour period.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May, -
Sighing for their certain returning,
When the summertime beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,
All the wintertime lay.
Ah! my eye is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May, -
Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the h2o-wooing willows;
Where, in laughing and in sobbing,
Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May:
Spring goes by with wasted warnings, -
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings, -
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away;
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

Denis Florence MacCarthy [1817-1882]

MIDSUMMER

Around this lovely valley rise
The regal hills of Paradise.

O, softly on yon banks of haze,
Her rosy face the Summer lays!

Becalmed along the azure heaven,
The argosies of cloudland lie,
Whose shores, with many a shining rift,
Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

Through all the long midsummer-day
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.
I seek the coolest sheltered seat,
Only where the field and forest meet,-
Where abound the pine-trees tall and bland,
The ancient oaks austere and thousand,
And fringy roots and pebbles fret
The ripples of the rivulet.

I sentinel the mowers, equally they go
Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row.
With even stroke their scythes they swing,
In melody their merry whetstones ring.
Backside the nimble youngsters run,
And toss the thick swaths in the sun.
The cattle graze, while, warm and still,
Slopes the wide pasture, basks the colina,
And bright, where summer breezes interruption,
The dark-green wheat crinkles like a lake.

The butterfly and humblebee
Come up to the pleasant woods with me;
Quickly before me runs the quail,
Her chickens skulk backside the rail;
High upwards the lone forest-pigeon sits,
And the woodpecker pecks and flits.
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,
The swarming insects drone and hum,
The partridge beats its throbbing pulsate.
The squirrel leaps amongst the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house.
The oriole flashes by; and, look!
Into the mirror of the beck,
Where the vain bluebird trims his coat,
Two tiny feathers autumn and float.

As silently, as tenderly,
The down of peace descends on me.
O, this is peace! I have no need
Of friend to talk, of volume to read:
A honey Companion hither abides;
Close to my thrilling heart He hides;
The holy silence is His Voice:
I prevarication and listen, and rejoice.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A MIDSUMMER Vocal

O, Male parent'south gone to market-town, he was upwardly before the twenty-four hours,
And Jamie's after robins, and the human is making hay,
And whistling down the hollow goes the male child that minds the mill,
While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will:
"Polly! - Polly! - The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?"

From all the misty morning air there comes a summer audio -
A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and footing.
The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons nib and coo,
And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:
"Polly! - Polly! - The cows are in the corn!
O, where'south Polly?"

Higher up the trees the honey-bees swarm past with buzz and boom,
And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom.
Inside the farmer's meadow a brownish-eyed daisy blows,
And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.
But Polly! - Polly! - The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?

How strange at such a time of 24-hour interval the mill should stop its clatter!
The farmer's married woman is listening at present and wonders what's the matter.
O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill,
While whistling upwards the hollow goes the male child that minds the factory.
But Polly! - Polly! - The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?

Richard Watson Glider [1844-1909]

JUNE
From the Prelude to "The Vision of Sir Launfal"

Over his keys the musing organist,
Showtime doubtfully and far abroad,
Showtime lets his fingers wander as they list,
And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:
So, as the touch on of his loved instrument
Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Forth the wavering vista of his dream.

Not but around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
Nosotros Sinais climb and know it non.

Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;
With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its artillery outstretched, the druid wood
Waits with its benedicite;
And to our age's drowsy blood
Nevertheless shouts the inspiring bounding main.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives united states of america,
We deal for the graves we prevarication in;
At the devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles nosotros buy with a whole soul's tasking:
'Tis heaven alone that is given abroad,
'Tis just God may be had for the asking;
No toll is assail the lavish summer;
June may exist had past the poorest corner.
And what is then rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Sky tries globe if it exist in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether nosotros look, or whether we listen,
Nosotros hear life murmur, or encounter it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct inside information technology that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly higher up it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there'southward never a leaf nor a blade likewise mean
To exist some happy beast's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a flower among the leaves,
And lets his illumined beingness o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs below her wings,
And the eye in her impaired breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the broad world and she to her nest, -
In the nice ear of Nature which vocal is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed abroad
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so total that a drop overfills information technology,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for u.s. now that the leaves are dark-green;
We sit down in the warm shade and feel correct well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms peachy;
We may shut our optics, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming about,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard past;
And if the breeze kept the good news dorsum,
For other couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all past yon heifer'due south lowing,
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new vino of the twelvemonth,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

JUNE

When the bubble moon is young,
Down the sources of the breeze,
Like a yellow lantern hung
In the tops of blackened trees,
At that place is promise she will grow
Into beauty unforetold,
Into all unthought-of gold.
Heigh ho!

When the Spring has dipped her foot,
Like a bather, in the air,
And the ripples warm the root
Till the little flowers cartel,
There is promise she volition abound
Sweeter than the Springs of old,
Fairer than was ever told.
Heigh ho!

But the moon of middle night,
Risen, is the rounded moon;
And the Spring of budding light
Eddies into simply a June.
Ah, the hope - was it and then?
Nay, the gift was fairy gold;
All the new is over-onetime.
Heigh ho!

Harrison Smith Morris [1856-

HARVEST

Sweet, sweet, sugariness,
Is the wind's song,
Astir in the rippled wheat
All twenty-four hours long,
It hath the beck's wild gayety,
The sorrowful cry of the body of water.
Oh, hush and hear!
Sweet, sweet and articulate,
In a higher place the locust's whirr
And hum of bee
Rises that soft, pathetic harmony.

In the meadow-grass
The innocent white daisies accident,
The dandelion feather doth laissez passer
Vaguely to and fro, -
The unquiet spirit of a bloom
That hath too brief an hour.

Now doth a little cloud all white,
Or gilded bright,
Drift downward the warm, bluish sky;
And now on the horizon line,
Where dusky woodlands lie,
A sunny mist doth shine,
Like to a veil earlier a holy shrine,
Concealing, half-revealing, things divine.

Sweet, sweetness, sweet,
Is the air current's song,
Astir in the rippled wheat
All mean solar day long.
That exquisite music calls
The reaper everywhere -
Life and death must share.
The golden harvest falls.

So doth all stop, -
Honored Philosophy,
Science and Art,
The bloom of the center; -
Master, Consoler, Friend,
Make Thou the harvest of our days
To fall within Thy ways.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]

SCYTHE Song

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, nonetheless, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are maxim,
Hush, and heed not, and fall comatose;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush - 'tis the lullaby Time is singing -
Hush, and mind not, for all things pass,
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

SEPTEMBER

Sweet is the vocalisation that calls
From babbling waterfalls
In meadows where the featherlike seeds are flying;
And soft the breezes blow,
And eddying come and go,
In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn
The blithe quail pipes at morning,
The merry partridge drums in hidden places,
And glittering insects gleam
Above the reedy stream,
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows autumn
Beyond the garden wall,
And on the amassed grapes to purple turning;
And pearly vapors lie
Along the eastern sky,
Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill
The winds shall whistle chill,
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together
To fly from frost and snow,
And seek for lands where blow
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The pollen-dusted bees
Search for the honey-lees
That linger in the last flowers of September,
While plaintive mourning doves
Coo sadly to their loves
Of the expressionless summer they so well call back.

The cricket chirps all day,
"O fairest summer, stay!"
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;
The wild fowl wing afar
Above the foamy bar,
And hasten due south ere the skies are frowning.

Now comes a fragrant breeze
Through the night cedar-trees,
And round well-nigh my temples fondly lingers,
In gentle playfulness,
Like to the soft caress
Bestowed in happier days past loving fingers.

Yet, though a sense of grief
Comes with the falling leaf,
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,
In all my autumn dreams
A future summer gleams,
Passing the fairest glories of the present!

George Arnold [1834-1865]

INDIAN Summer

These are the days when birds come dorsum,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a astern look.

These are the days when skies put on
The quondam, onetime sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold fault.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Well-nigh thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the contradistinct air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, final communion in the brume,
Let a child to bring together,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Gustatory modality thine immortal wine!

Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]

PREVISION

Oh, days of dazzler standing veiled apart,
With dreamy skies and tender, tremulous air,
In this rich Indian summertime of the heart
Well may the world her jewelled halo wear.

The long chocolate-brown fields - no longer drear and dull -
Burn with the glow of these deep-hearted hours.
Until the dry out weeds seem more than beautiful,
More spiritlike than fifty-fifty summer'southward flowers.

But yesterday the world was stricken bare,
Left onetime and expressionless in gray, enshrouding gloom;
To-24-hour interval what vivid wonder of the air
Awakes the soul of vanished light and bloom?

Sharp with the clean, fine ecstasy of death,
A mightier current of air shall strike the shrinking earth,
An exhalation of artistic breath
Wake the white wonder of the winter'southward birth.

In her wide Pantheon - her temple place -
Wrapped in strange dazzler and new comforting,
Nosotros shall non miss the Summer'due south full-diddled grace,
Nor hunger for the swift, exquisite Bound.

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]

A Song OF EARLY AUTUMN

When late in summer the streams run xanthous,
Burst the bridges and spread into bays;
When berries are blackness and peaches are mellow,
And hills are hidden by rainy haze;

When the goldenrod is golden still,
But the centre of the sunflower is darker and sadder;
When the corn is in stacks on the gradient of the loma,
And slides o'er the path the striped adder;

When collywobbles flutter from clover to thicket,
Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf;
When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket,
Grasshopper's rasp, and rustle of sheaf;

When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle,
And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown;
When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle,
And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone;

When heavy and hollow the robin'due south whistle
And shadows are deep in the heat of noon;
When the air is white with the down o' the thistle,
And the sky is red with the harvest moon;

O, and so exist chary, young Robert and Mary,
No time allow slip, not a moment wait!
If the fiddle would play it must cease its tuning;
And they who would wed must be washed with their mooning;
And so let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle,
And pile the forest past the barn-g gate!

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]

TO AUTUMN

Flavor of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sunday;
Conspiring with him how to load and anoint
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days volition never cease,
For Summertime has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amongst thy shop?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may discover
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the side by side swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost proceed
Steady thy laden head across a beck;
Or past a cider-press, with patient await,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying twenty-four hour period
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river shallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light current of air lives or dies;
And total-grown lambs loud squeal from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats [1795-1821]

ODE TO Autumn

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no alone bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from wood forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor alone thorn; -
Shaking his languid locks all dewy vivid
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer? - With the lord's day,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,
Till shade and silence waken up as ane,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous oral cavity.
Where are the merry birds? - Abroad, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer? - In the West,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve past sudden Night is pressed
Like tearful Prosperine, snatched from her flowers,
To a nigh gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer, - the green prime, -
The many, many leaves all twinkling? - Three
On the mossed elm; 3 on the naked lime
Trembling, - and one upon the one-time oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad'due south immortality? -
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's dark-green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his achieved hoard,
The ants have brimmed their garners with ripe grain,
And dearest bees take stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have winged across the chief;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Among the sunless shadows of the plain.
Lone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons upwardly the dead and gone,
With the final leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the withered world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hushful heed's mysterious far away,
Hundred-to-one what ghostly thing volition steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit down with her, and be o'ershaded
Nether the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care; -
There is enough of withered everywhere
To make her bower, - and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty'southward, - she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks nigh beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Plenty of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, -
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Plenty of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison house for the soul!

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

ODE TO THE WEST WIND

I
O Wild West Air current, thou breath of Fall's being,
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow and blackness, and pale, and hectic carmine,
Pestilence stricken multitudes! O 1000
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie common cold and depression,
Each similar a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sis of the Spring shall blow

Her blaring o'er the dreaming earth, and make full
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors obviously and hill;

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II
Yard on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky'due south commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and body of water,

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, fifty-fifty from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's tiptop,
The locks of the approaching storm. Yard dirge

Of the dying yr, to which this closing night
Volition be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Blackness rain, and fire, and hail will outburst: O hear!

Iii
Thousand who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the roll of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae'due south bay,
And saw in sleep erstwhile palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave'southward intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! K
For whose path the Atlantic'southward level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly abound gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV
If I were a dead leaf 1000 mightest bear;
If I were a swift deject to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy ability, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less gratuitous
Than grand, O uncontrollable! If even
I were equally in my boyhood, and could exist

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As and then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision - I would ne'er take striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One besides like thee - tameless, and swift, and proud.

V
Make me thy lyre, even every bit the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous i!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like withered, leaves, to quicken a new nascency;
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened world

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far backside?

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

Fall: A Chant

The warm sun is failing; the bleak wind is wailing;
The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flowers are dying;
And the Year
On the earth, her expiry-bed, in a shroud of leaves expressionless,
Is lying.
Come, months, come up abroad,
From November to May;
In your saddest assortment
Follow the bier
Of the expressionless, cold Yr,
And like dim shadows spotter by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling; the nipped worm is crawling;
The rivers are swelling; the thunder is knelling
For the Year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling;
Come, months, come up away;
Put on white, black, and gray;
Allow your light sisters play -
Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead, common cold Year,
And make her grave greenish with tear on tear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

Autumn

The morns are meeker than they were,
The basics are getting brownish;
The drupe's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a red gown.
Lest I should be sometime-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.

Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN"

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-erect,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, information technology'due south then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the firm, bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is hither -
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air'south so appetizin'; and the landscape through the brume
Of a well-baked and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock -
When the frost is on the punkin and the provender's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morning time;
The stubble in the furries - kindo' lonesome-similar, merely still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to make full;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls beneath - the clover overhead! -
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the provender'south in the shock.

And so your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured effectually the celler-flooring in blood-red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin'southward over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, besides! . . .
I don't know how to tell it - but ef sich a thing could exist
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on
me -
I'd desire to 'commodate 'em - all the whole-indurin' flock -
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder'due south in the shock.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

KORE

Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the nifty garths, and stacks, and tranquillity farms,
And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves.
Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms,
Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,
And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.

With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,
And eye-lids heavy with the coming sleep,
With small-scale breasts lifted upwardly in stress of sighs,
She passed, as shadows laissez passer, amid the sheep;
While the globe dreamed, and just I was ware
Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft pilus.

The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;
There was no sound among the sacred boughs.
Nor whatever mournful music in her streams:
Merely I saw the shadow on her brows,
Just I knew her for the yearly slain,
And wept, and cry until she come again.

Frederic Manning [18 -

OLD Oct

Hail, quondam October, bright and chill,
First freedman from the summer dominicus!
Spice loftier the basin, and drink your fill!
Give thanks heaven, at final the summer's done!

Come, friend, my burn is burning bright,
A fire's no longer out of place,
How clear it glows! (there's frost to-night,)
It looks white wintertime in the face.

You've been to "Richard" Ah! you've seen
A noble play: I'm glad you went;
Simply what on earth does Shakespeare mean
By "winter of our discontent?"

Be mine the tree that feeds the fire!
Be mine the sun knows when to set!
Be mine the months when friends desire
To plow in here from cold and wet!

The sentry sunday, that glared so long
O'erhead, deserts his summer post;
Ay, you may brew it hot and strong:
"The joys of winter" - come, a toast!

Shine on the kangaroo, chiliad sun!
Make far New Zealand faint with fright!
Don't bustle dorsum to spoil our fun,
Give thanks goodness, erstwhile October'due south here!

Thomas Constable [1812-1881]

NOVEMBER

When thistle-blows do lightly float
Nearly the pasture-height,
And shrills the militarist a parting note,
And creeps the frost at dark,
Then hilly ho! though singing so,
And whistle as I may,
There comes once more the old eye hurting
Through all the livelong day.

In high air current creaks the leafless tree
And nods the fading fern;
The knolls are dun as snowfall-clouds be,
And cold the sun does burn.
So ho, hollo! though calling so,
I cannot keep it down;
The tears ascend unto my eyes,
And thoughts are chill and brownish.

Far in the cedars' dusky stoles,
Where the sere ground-vine weaves,
The partridge drums funereal rolls
Above the fallen leaves.
And hip, hip, ho! though cheering and then,
It stills no whit the hurting;
For drip, baste, drip, from bare-branch tip,
I hear the yr's last rain.

And then bulldoze the cold cows from the hill,
And call the wet sheep in;
And permit their stamping clatter fill
The barn with warming din.
And ho, folk, ho! though information technology be so
That we no more may roam,
We yet volition find a cheerful mind
Around the fire at home!

C. L. Cleaveland [18 - ? ]

November

Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear,
Every bit kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones;
The former volition feel the weight of mossy stones;
The young lonely will laugh and belittle at fearfulness.
Information technology is the tread of armies marching near,
From scarlet lands to lands forever pale;
It is a bugle dying downwards the gale;
It is the sudden gushing of a tear.
And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors;
And romp of spirit-children on the pave;
It is the tender sighing of the dauntless

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