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Henrietta Clarke, spring, in English Clear filters

RomanticHenrietta Clarke

Wild Geese

Wild geese flying together, Flying to lands afar. But we have parted, my love and I, I know not where you are; Under the spell of Summer's charm I thought that you were mine, Unseen magic ’round us both Wove a charm sublime. When the wild birds in Spring return Shall I find the answer for which I yearn? Wild geese flying together, Flying to lands unknown. Dreaming and waiting night and day, Longing for you alone. High overhead they pass Flying to fairer skies.
InspiredHenrietta Clarke

Fall Ploughing

The men who plough in Springtime see Small growing things 'ere long, But men who plough in Autumntime Must have great faith and strong. The fields of long brown rows of sod Are flanked by second grass; And the wild geese that southward fly Honk dully as they pass. Men urge their tired beasts along, With confidence elate; Under a grey and stormy sky Light fades, they cannot wait. For they must look away beyond The high white hills forlorn, And through Frost's icy fingers see Another Spring reborn.
CheerfulHenrietta Clarke

Springtime

Across the street the neighbor’s boy Is spading the half-frozen ground; He stops occasionally to pounce Upon a worm, wiggling and round; He holds it high exultantly, Then drops it in a small glass jar, And looking toward the soft blue hills, He sees the fishing brook afar. As twilight comes and shadows fall Across the yard and vacant lot, The boy still digs with easy grace, And sees in his mind’s eye a spot Where early sunlight tipped with gold Flickers across a shaded stream; Feels not the weight of heavy sod, But one large trout bending his rod.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Mirage

Away in the Southland, Spring came early, And flowers blossomed overnight; This should have made my heart beat faster, As I gazed in awe at the magic sight. Then I thought of my home in the distant Northland, And somehow life didn’t seem just right. I curled my fingers to form a spyglass, And shield my eyes from the noontime glare, And through this opening I saw in wonder A fragment of drift-ice, floating there . . . A clamper of drift-ice, moving slowly . . . Strange how the memory of childhood clings, Sapphire colors of Spring in the Northland, Rainbow lights on a sea-gull’s wings.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Spring

Small rivulets make crooked paths across streets Recently covered with soiled snow, The vapor arising from the sorrel ground Exudes a steam of musty odors. Across the way with heavy stooping figure A foreign woman digs deftly Into the tenacious loam, Seeking a few edible roots So mindful of the savory relish Of her Homeland.
CheerfulHenrietta Clarke

Arbutus

Up the high hill in ecstasy we race, Then turn around to gaze below its height, Where flowing brooks and pastures interlace, Pleasing and cool in early morning light. Above the mist-enveloped glen We feel the influence of fairy wands; Damp smell of wood and odors of the fen, Bits of soft moss and tiny green curled fronds. In little valleys snow still lingers on, And under prickly boughs of rugged spruce The King of Winter's marks are not yet gone; The Princess Spring is asking now for truce. Beside an ancient rotting stump we find A dainty mystery rousing fresh delight, The small arbutus blossoms are entwined With clinging tendrils, hidden from the sight.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Premature

No sea-gulls fly in the ice-bound bay. They feel that Spring is not yet here; And they follow the sea-craft far away, Longing daily for harbor and pier. Had I learned the wisdom of such a bird As I glimpsed the white expanse of your soul And not rushed on—your beauty lured, As I saw in the future the ultimate goal— Had I waited until the ice was away, This chilly mist would not rise each day.

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