The maid is out in the clear April light Our store of linen hanging up to dry; On clump of box, on the small grass there lie Bits of thin lace, and broidery blossom-white. And something makes tall Ellen — gesture, look — Or else but that most ancient, simple thing, Hanging the clothes upon a day in spring, A Greek girl cut out some old lovely book. The wet white flaps ; a tune just come in mind, The sound brims the still house. Our flags are out, Blue by the box, blue by the kitchen stair; Betwixt the two she trips across the wind, Her warm hair blown all cloudy-wise about, Slim as the flags, and every whit as fair.
One star; the dusk; a scrap of rain. A little sad, alone, Out of the wet old gardens blown, The scent of mint pricks at the pane. And market carts go by, Into a large, soft sky, Of grey, of ochre, too; Dully they go their way, Past file of houses rainy grey, A file of blue. One spout is quick and sweet, One broken and high ; Their poignancies fill all the country street- The ache of old regret, Down the thin wet — Into the large, soft sky, The market carts drip by.
Oh, I would sing! Oh, I would cry! Oh, I would lay me down and die ! There is no lovely or strange thing I would not do this day in spring.
Why go the sighing winds unfurled? To blow me to the end of world. Why bud the flowers, except that I May pelt the stars out of the sky?
Why drips the rain its ancient way ? To blot out every yesterday, And gather time to this one hour, My golden thoughts its only dower.
Why curves the pool out in the grass? To make for me a looking-glass, Where I may see how glad a thing A girl in love this day in spring!
The great ghosts of the town Up and down, Each a gray, filmy thing, Go by.
Sudden a brief, wet sky! — A file of poplars vague with spring.
Drips the old garden there; See, its torn edge about, Scarlet, remote, Tulips flare, The length of one thin note! — And are put out.
An apple orchard smells like wine; A succory flower is blue; Until Grief touched these eyes of mine, Such things I never knew.
And now indeed I know so plain Why one would like to cry When spouts are full of April rain — Such lonely folk go by!
So wise — so wise — that my tears fall Each breaking of the dawn; That I would run to tell you all — But you are dead and gone.
As I came down the Old York Road Saint John's began to ring, Across the Dead Folk in the grass, The wide new dusk of spring.
Each window was a half-blown flower, The pool beneath the hedge Looked like a scrap of Tyrian gold Dropped thinly in the sedge.
I think that never in the world Blew there a tree so white As the wild cherry by the wall, So lonely to the sight.
As I came down the Old York Road Not any soul was near, Except two lovers going by Within the fleet of year.
Oh, windows flowering in the dusk! Oh, pool of fragile gold! Oh bough, fair as my early love, Gone with the dreams of old!
Saint John's grey bell, that grieving bell. Struck out of the frail sky Such gusts of old, lost things — I felt That I must weep or die.
Old women think of old roofs, and the things That made these comely in the ancient sun ; Old men think of their wars, their wayfarings done. Both of first love; of fair, dispersed springs. Old women and old men — God rest them all! — To hear the dark, slow waters lap about; To see their last of candle spluttering out; — It is too poor an ending to befall. But ours this golden earth from sky to sky ; And all my thoughts of you, and yours of me; About us memorable April set. — Sudden I feel the fleet years tumbling by; Age stares at me behind each rosy tree! — Oh, snatch me to your heart ! I would forget.
An old and quiet house set down A windy field or two from town.
And a great clump of lavender, All day with cross, small bees astir.
Larkspur, hot-blue as with a sting; And mint, so brief and sharp a thing.
Tall, well-thumbed books upon a shelf; A green, white-flowered jug of delf.
Old friends, who from the village walk On Sunday afternoons, to talk
Of the new shop; the guests from town; The wind that blew the apples down.
They go; the dusk comes from afar, Like music blown from out a star.
Those Others drift across the dew; My early love — and you — and you!
Lizette Woodworth Reese was an American poet who lived from 1856 to 1935 and spent most of her life in Baltimore, Maryland. She worked as a schoolteacher for many years at Western High School in Baltimore, while also producing a substantial body of poetry. Her poems frequently focus on nature, especially the gardens and landscapes around her native city, as well as themes of memory, love, and grief. She was particularly skilled in traditional verse forms, especially the sonnet, and her work is known for its vivid imagery and emotional restraint. Reese published several poetry collections, including A Branch of May, A Handful of Lavender, and Wild Cherry. Her poetry gained recognition among her contemporaries, and she was considered one of the notable poets of the American South during her lifetime. Although her reputation declined after her death, she remains an important figure in the history of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century American poetry.
Apprentissage pas à pas, enregistrements vocaux à partager et rappels de révision.
