Japanese Hokku 7
On the flowering twig,
Lo! the robin is singing.
It must be spring.
Poems on the topic: spring
Poems on the topic “spring” on Poets.by.
Tanka VI
And now Spring has come
Blossoming up my garden.
I alone unchanged.
Moving in my house of Autumn.
One leaf alone saves a tree.
First Snow on the Hills
The hills kneel in a huddled group,
Like camels of the caravan,
And winter piles upon their patient backs
Its snows.
And through the desert of long nights and days
I think I see them stepping — stepping —
In misty file.
Toward the green land of Spring!
Suddenly
Suddenly flickered a flame,
Suddenly fluttered a wing:
What, can a dead bird sing?
Somebody spoke your name.
Suddenly fluttered a wing,
Sounded a voice, the same,
Somebody spoke your name:
Oh, the remembering!
Sounded a voice, the same,
Song of the heart's wild Spring,
Oh, the remembering:
Which of us was to blame?
Song of the heart's wild Spring,
Wings that still flutter, lame,
Which of us was to blame? —
God, the slow withering!
Sorrowing Love
And again the flowers are come
And the light shakes,
And no tiny voice is dumb,
And a bud breaks
On the humble bush and the proud restless tree.
Come with me!
Look, this little flower is pink,
And this one white.
Here’s a pearl cup for your drink,
Here’s for your delight
A yellow one, sweet with honey,
Here’s fairy money
Silver bright
Scattered over the grass
As we pass.
Here’s moss. How the smell of it lingers
Juniper Ring
Juniper ring on the granite rock,
Deep and green and perfectly planned;
Living with you I understand
Circle-magic of old.
You had a sister in mystery--
Was it only an April ago
That a crocus cup on a bed of snow
Promised eternal things?
It will be longer, Juniper,
Till earth declares you ready to break,
And you fade of the havoc her brown hands make
That are covered with mystic rings.
I have Never Loved You Yet
I have never loved you yet, if now I love.
If Love was born in that bright April sky
And ran unheeding when the sun was high,
And slept as the moon sleeps through Autumn nights
While those dear steady stars burn in their heights:
If Love so lived and ran and slept and woke
And ran in beauty when each morning broke,
Love yet was boylike, fervid and unstable,
Teased with romance, not knowing truth from fable.
But Winter after Autumn comes and stills
The petulant waters and the wild mind fills
With silence; and the dark and cold are bitter,
O, bitter to remember past days sweeter.
Then Spring with one warm cloudy finger breaks
The frost and the heart's airless black soil shakes;
From Wear to Thames
Is it because Spring now is come
That my heart leaps in its bed of dust?
Is it with sorrow or strange pleasure
To watch the green time's gathering treasure?
Or is there some too sharp distaste
In all this quivering green and gold?
Something that makes bare boughs yet barer,
And the eye's pure delight the rarer?
Not that the new found Spring is sour....
The blossom swings on the cherry branch,
From Wear to Thames I have seen this greenness
Cover the six-months-winter meanness.
And windflowers and yellow gillyflowers
Pierce the astonished earth with light:
And most-loved wallflower's bloody petal
Shakes over that long frosty battle.
I Will Ask
I will ask primrose and violet to spend for you
Their smell and hue,
And the bold, trembling anemone awhile to spare
Her flowers starry fair;
Or the flushed wild apple and yet sweeter thorn
Their sweetness to keep
Longer than any fire-bosomed flower born
Between midnight and midnight deep.
And I will take celandine, nettle and parsley, white
In its own green light,
Or milkwort and sorrel, thyme, harebell and meadowsweet
Lifting at your feet,
And ivy blossom beloved of soft bees; I will take
The loveliest--
The seeding grasses that bend with the winds, and shake
Though the winds are at rest.
In the Lane
The birds return,
The blossom brightens again the cherry bough.
The hedges are green again
In the airless lane,
And hedge and blossom and bird call, Now, now, now!
O birds, return!
Who will care if the blossom die on the bough,
Or the hedge be bare again
In the screaming lane?
For what they were these are not, are not now.
The one gone makes
All that remain seem strange and lonely now.
She will not walk here again
In the blossoming lane:--
And there's a dead bough in every blossoming bough.
West Country
Spring comes soon to Maisemore
And spring comes sweet,
With bird-songs and blue skies,
On gay dancing feet;
But she is such a shy lady
I fear we’ll never meet.
Yet some day round a corner
Where the hedge foams white,
I’ll find Spring sleeping
In the young-crescent night,
And seize her and make her
Yield all her delight.
But yon’s a glad story
That’s yet to be told.
Here’s grey winter’s bareness
And no-shadowed cold.
March
I see the snow-drops flutter
Their white wings in the gale.
I hear the robin utter
On high his gallant tale.
Look where the rash wind chases
With clouds the climbing sun !
The day makes merry faces —
Gaily her gray steeds run.
The bare brown trees are swinging,
The curled waves roll and rail.
Ho ! — madcap Spring comes singing
On frosty Winter's trail!
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