Delightful music woos the ear; The gra.s.s is stirred Down to the heart of every spear-- Ah, that's a Bird.

Clouds roll before a blue immense That stretches high And lends the soul exalted sense-- That scroll's a Sky.

Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests; Their jubilee Extols brave Captains and their quests-- And that is Sea.

New-leaping gra.s.s, the feathery flute, The sapphire ring, The sea's full-voiced, profound salute,-- Ah, this is Spring!

ARTHUR POWELL

THE JOY OF THE SPRINGTIME

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence, The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose, The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam, The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes, The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden Watching the petals of gladness unclose?

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret, The bliss at the core of your magical mirth, That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth, That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom The roots of delight in the heart of the earth?

SAROJINI NAIDU

SPRING

At the first hour, it was as if one said, "Arise."

At the second hour, it was as if one said, "Go forth."

And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes Sank below the white horizon at the north.

At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst;"

At the fourth hour, all the earth was still: Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst; And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill.

At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne; At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried; At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown, At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died.

At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb; And the earth was then silent for the s.p.a.ce of three hours.

But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom Shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers.

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

PRIMAVERA

Spirit immortal of mortality, Imperishable faith, calm miracle Of resurrection, truth no tongue can tell, No brain conceive,--now witnessed utterly In this new testament of earth and sea,-- To us thy gospel! Where the acorn fell The oak-tree springs: no seed is infidel!

Once more, O Wonder, flower and field and tree Reveal thy secret and significance!

And we, who share unutterable things And feel the foretaste of eternity, Haply shall learn thy meaning and perchance Set free the soul to lift immortal wings And cross the frontiers of infinity.

GEORGE CABOT LODGE

THE GREEN O' THE SPRING

Sure, afther all the winther, An' afther all the snow, 'Tis fine to see the sunshine, 'Tis fine to feel its glow; 'Tis fine to see the buds break On boughs that bare have been-- But best of all to Irish eyes 'Tis grand to see the green!

Sure, afther all the winther, An' afther all the snow, 'Tis fine to hear the brooks sing As on their way they go; 'Tis fine to hear at mornin'

The voice of robineen, But best of all to Irish eyes 'Tis grand to see the green!

Sure, here in grim New England The spring is always slow, An' every bit o' green gra.s.s Is kilt wid frost and snow; Ah, many a heart is weary The winther days, I ween But oh, the joy when springtime comes An' brings the blessed green!

DENIS A. MCCARTHY

AN APRIL MORNING

Once more in misted April The world is growing green.

Along the winding river The plumey willows lean.

Beyond the sweeping meadows The looming mountains rise, Like battlements of dreamland Against the brooding skies.

In every wooded valley The buds are breaking through, As though the heart of all things No languor ever knew.

The golden-wings and bluebirds Call to their heavenly choirs.

The pines are blued and drifted With smoke of brushwood fires.

And in my sister's garden Where little breezes run, The golden daffodillies Are blowing in the sun.

BLISS CARMAN

"WITH MEMORIES AND ODORS"

With memories and odors The wind is warm and mild; The earth is like a mother Where leaps the unborn child.

The grackles flock returning Like rain-clouds from the south.

And all the world lies yearning Toward summer, mouth to mouth.

How soft the hills and hazy Seen through the open door!-- The crocus shines, a virgin, White from the gra.s.sy floor.

The children whirl around in a ring, And laugh and sing, and dance and sing: But the blackbird whistles clear, O clear, "The Spring, the Spring!"

JOHN HALL WHEELOCK

APRIL RAIN

Fall, rain! You are the blood of coming blossom, You shall be music in the young birds' throats, You shall be breaking, soon, in silver notes; A virgin laughter in the young earth's bosom.

Oh, that I could with you reenter earth, Pa.s.s through her heart and come again to sun, Out of her fertile dark to sing and run In loveliness and fragrance of new mirth!

Fall, rain! Into the dust I go with you, Pierce the remaining snows with subtle fire, Warming the frozen roots with soft desire, Dreams of ascending leaves and flowers new.

I am no longer body,--I am blood Seeking for some new loveliness of shape; Dark loveliness that dreams of new escape, The sun-surrender of unclosing bud.

Take me, O Earth! and make me what you will; I feel my heart with mingled music fill.

CONRAD AIKEN