=^ POeTRY "^ OP THe 5eA50N5 A\ARy I. LOVejOY New Yark State College of Agriculture At Cornell University Ithaca, N. Y. PN6110.S5L8r""'""""'''"^ .Poetry of the seasons, 3 1924 014 524 759 Cornell University Library The original of tliis bool< is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014524759 Pojeitg; 0£ iiqi^ ^^^:^xxn^ COMPILED MARY I. LOVEJOY COMPILER OF "NATURE IN VERSE " SILVER, BURDETT & COMPANY New York BOSTON Chicago 143095 Copyright, logS, By Silver, Burdett & Company. Ea M^ father anti Mat\)tx. NATURE. NATURE never did betray The heart that loved her: 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy ; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life. Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all that we behold Is full of blessings. — William Wordswori/t. PREFACE. PERHAPS the most potent agency in fostering a love of nature, next to direct "communion with her visible forms," is found in the eloquent tributes of the poets, whose sympathetic interpretation of her "various language" has a peculiar charm, especially for young people, from their instinctive delight in rhyme and rhythm. Poetry of the Seasons is designed for grammar schools and for home libraries. Its predecessor. Nature IN Verse, a poetry reader for primary grades, has been acceptably used by thousands of teachers and pupils, and there have been numerous requests for a companion vo' ume for older readers. It is believed that teachers and school boards will appre- ciate the assistance which this book cannot fail to render as a supplement to nature study in the grammar grades. It will perform a double mission, in stimulating the love of nature, and in familiarizing its readers with some of the choicest forms of pastoral and' lyric poetry. The selections have been made with great care from a large number of the best English and American authors. They treat of the seasons, their varied phenomena, their characteristic flora ; the habits of birds and other animals ; the wonders of the earth, sea, and air ; together with cor- related lessons on order, industry, etc. The arrangement enables the teacher to follow the outline of work suggested by spring, summer, autumn, and winter during the school 5 6 PREFACE. year, and the ample and varied material permits suitable selection for all classes of pupils. The book will be found no less attractive for home use, either for young people or for adult readers. The selections from the poems of Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, Howells, Bayard Taylor, Edgar Fawcett, Celia Thaxter, Lucy Larcom, and Alice Cary are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Hough- ton, MifHin & Company, publishers of the works of those authors ; the selection from James Whitcomb Riley's " Poems of Childhood " is used by permission of the 'Bo wen-Merrill Company ; and the other copyrighted ma- terial by permission of Roberts Bros., D. Appleton & Company, Charles^ Scribner's Sons, G. P. Putnam's Sons, Thomas Whittaker, Damrell & Upham, A. D. F. Randolph & Company, A. C. McClurg & Company, Copelancl & Day, Thomas Y. Crowell & Company, Perry Mason & Company, Coates & Company, C. J. Viets, Lothrop Publishing Com- pany, and Mrs. Harriett M. Lothrop, to all of whom the compiler desires to express grateful appreciation of their kindness and courtesy. She also extends sincere thanks to the authors who so cordially granted permission for the use of their poems. That Poetry of the Seasons may awaken parents, teachers, and pupils to a deeper sense of the wonderful works of Nature, our great teacher, and that the lessons learned therefrom may be productive of lasting good, is the sincere desire of the compiler. M. I. L. CONTENTS POETRY OF SPRING. The Eloquence of Nature . . Samuel Francis Smith The Seasons . . Edmund Spenser The Glory of God in Creation . Tliomas Moore . Morning .... .... Joint Keats Sunshine Land . .... Edtiit Matilda Tliomas Song of Praise . . . John Alilton . The Coming of Spring . . . A'ora Perry . . The Messenger of Spring . . / John Logan . The Voice of Spring . . Fcliaa D. Hemaus Spring . . Liidcoig Tieck . A Spring Song . . . . Trans, by James Freeman Clarke Song in March William Gilmore Simms March William Cnllcn Bryant . The Wind Lettl'ia FJizabeth Landon . The Wind in a Frolic . . . IVilliain llowitt March ... All the Year Round A Sail on the Clouds . Mary L. Wyatt The Song of the Rain The Spectator . The Rainbow Thomas Campbell . Learn a Little Every Day . . . Selected The Brook ... . . . Alfred Tennyson The River .... . . . Selected ... The Hylodes Lewis G. Wilson The Sea . . . . . . Mary Howitt . . Apostrophe to the Ocean . . . . Lord George Noel Gordon Byron PAGE 17 18 18 '9 10 51 21 -i 29 30 3' V:: 35 36 37 39 40 42 44 CONTENTS. The Little Brown Seed Be Patient . . Wonderful . . Grass . . . Tree-Planting . The First Crocus The Snowdrop Spring (after Meleager) To a Mountain Daisy . To the First Robin . The English Robin . . The Bluebird .... April, Ever Frail and Fair April .... April .... . . In April . April . . ... April ... . . Home Thoughts from Abroad In April . . . . • . . Origin of Violets . . . . The Yellow Violet . To Daffodils . ... 'Tis the White Anemone . The Daffodils The Blue Jay . . . The Music of Nature . The Bluebird The Golden Orioles . . In April . . . . . An Apple Orchard in the Sprin: .May .... .... The Sister Months . Song : A May Morning . . The Trailing Arbutus Under the Leaves Morning . . . The Three Flowers The Daisy in India The Sensitive Plant . To the Small Celandine Flowers . . . A Secret . . , Harriett Mulford Lothrop Richard C. Trench Julian S. Culler . . Edgar Fawcelt . Samuel Francis Smith . Kate Brownlee Sherwood Selected Andrew Lang . Robert Burns . . Henry Stevenson Washburn Harrison Weir. Alexander Wilson Oliver Wendell Holmes Mary Howilt . . . Ralph Waldo Emerson Eben Eugene Rexford Nathaniel Parker Willis John Greenleaf Whit tier Robert Browning . Elizabeth Akers Allen . Selected William Cullen Bryant Robert Herrick . Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton WilliaTn Wordsworth Susan Hartley Swell . John Vance Cheney . Eben Eugene Rexjord J. Hazard Hartzell . Helen Hujtt Jackson . William Martin . . Edviund Spenser . . Lucy Larcom . . . John Milton . . . Sarah Helen Whitman Selected . ... John Keats . . Samuel Francis Smith James Montgomery Percy Bysshe Shelley William Wordsworth B. W. Procter {Barry Cornwall) Helen Isabel Mborhous^ CONTENTS. The First Swallow . . . Perseverance Feathered Name-Speakers The Bobolink The Kingfisher William IVordswortA jR. S. S. Andros . The Young Idea . Thomas Htll . . Mary Howitt . Goldfinches /oAn Keats . . . The Mocking-Bird . . . Joseph Rodman Drake The Beaver Mary Howitt . . Greek Mother's LuIInby Ziiella Cocke . . Homeward Selected ... Evening Song . . John Fletcher . Evening Chambers'' s Journal . Evening , . . Joseph Rodman Drake The Evening Cloud John Wilson . . . The World's Wanderers .... Percy Bysshe Shelley page: 891 90 91 92: 94 95 95 97 98 100 lOI IC2 i°3 103 104 POETRY OF SUMMER. Summer ... . . . The Spacious Firmament .... Daybreak Morning They Come I The Merry Summer Months A Drop of Dew . . . . Puck and the Fairy . .... To June Summer Song of the Summer Winds . . . The West Wind The East Wind To a Cloud The Wind and the Sea . . . Before the Rain After a Summer Shower . . . Summer Storm After the Summer Storm .... The Close of a Rainy Day . . . The Brooklet The Boy and the Brook .... Minnows The Song of a Summer Stream . . Edmund Spenser . 107 Joseph Addison . 107 Percy Bysshe Shelley . . . . 108 John Milton . 108 William Motherwell .... 109 Andrew Marvel 1 10 William Shakespeare . Ill James Henry Leigh Hunt 112 Walter Scott . . . 113 George Darley . ... • 'i,^ William Cullen Bryant . . • ii-; Henry Stevenson Washburn . 116 William Cullen Bryant . • 117 Bayard Taylor .... iiS Thomas Bailey Aldrich . ■ '"9 Andrews Norton .... . 120 William Morris . . . . . 121 Sarah Helen Whitman . . . 122 Nathan Haskell Dole . 12:5 William Gilmore Simms . . 124 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow I2S Johfi Keats . 126 Francis Ridley Ha^iergat , , . 126 10 C ONTENTS. Green River Seneca Lake . Surf . . . The Sandpiper The Sea . A Day in June A Violet Bank The Moss Rose July A Summer Longing ... In the Country . .... The Forest . . ... To an Elm . Woodman, Spare that Tree . . The Blackbird . . . . . Birds in Summer ... The Songsters . The Nightingale and the Glowworm. To a Humming-bird . July . . Vacation Song In Midsummer Midsummer A Summer's Day Wild Roses . Jacqueminot Roses Morning in August August . Early Goldenrod . August In Summer-Time . One Day The Sun-flower Tiger-lilies The Toadstool Die Herz Blume . In August The Butterfly's Revenge Hidden Sweets The Bees The Grasshopper The Boston Grasshopper PACE William Cullen Bryant . .128 James Gates Percival . . . .130 Edmund Clarence Stedman . . 131 • Celia Leighton Thaxter . 132 B. W. Procter {^Barry Cornwall), 134 Henry Stevenson Washburn . • 135 William Shakespeare . . . .137 Front the Ger^nan of Friedrich Kruminacher . . . . 137 Susan Hartley Swett . . .138 George Arnold . . . '139 John Keats . . . .140 Richard Monckton Milnes 1 40 Henry T. Tuckerman . . . .141 George P. Morris . . . 142 Alfred Tennyson . '144 Mary Howitt . . . . . 145 James Thomson . . 146 William Cowper ... 147 John Vance Cheney ... 149 John Clare . . . .150 Katharine Lee Bates . 151 Richard Kendall Miutkittrick \ "^^ John Townsend Trowbi-idge . 1 54 Abba Goold Wools on . .156 Edgar Fawcett . . '157 Ednah Proctor Clarke . .158 Jaifies Herbert Morse . ■ ^ 59 Edmund Spenser . 160 Abbie Frances Judd . . 161 Helen Maria Winsloixj . .161 Thomas Stephens Collier . 163 James Berry Bensel . .164 James Montgomery . . . 165 Thomas Bailey Aldrich . . .165 Oliver Wendell Holmes . . . .166 Thomas Hood . ... 167 William Dean Howells . . . 168 William Rounceville Alger 169 Anne Charlotte Lynch Botta . 170 William Shakespeare . 17c) Alfred Tennyson \n\ Lucinda J. Gregg . . . .171 CONTENTS. 11 The Housekeeper . . . . Charles Lamb Lullaby Grace Mitchell .... Sunset on Lake Leman . Henry Stevenson Washburn The Trosachs Walter-Scott Days Gone By .... James Whitcomb Riley . . Good-by, Sweet Day Celia Leighton Thaxter Whippoorwill . . ... The King of the Night Twilight at Sea Dover Beach . . ... The Gathering of the Fairies Fireflies Cradle Song Pauline Frances Camp Good-Night George Hill .... Midnight ... ... James Russell Lowell Mary Mapes Dodge . . B. W. Procter {Barry Cornwall) Amelia B. Welby . Matthew Arnold Joseph Rodman Drake Agnes Mary Robinson . . . PAGE 175 175 176 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 184 186 187 POETRY OF AUTUMN. Autumn Hymn of Praise by Adam and E Autumn's Mirth . Autumn . . ... The Gladness of Nature Morning September Days . . . Voice of the Wind The Song of the Wind The Cloud . . . Hymn of Praise Rain in September The Equinoctial . . The Latter Rain . , A Storm in Venice Up in a Wild . The River . . The River's End . Break, Break, Break Slow and Sure . . The Ocean . ■ . . . The Recollection , September .... A Wild Rose in September Edmund Spenser . . . • • 193 John Milton .... • • 193 Samuel Minturn Peck . ■ 194 John Keats • 195 William Cullen Bryant . 196 John Fletcher .... 197 George Arnold .... . 198 Henry Taylor .... 199 Selected . . 200 Percy Bysshe Shelley . . 201 John Milton 202 Mortimer Collins . ■ • 203 Mary Elizabeth Blake . 204 Jones Very . ... . . 205 Joaquin Miller 205 Adeline D. T. Whitney . 206 Selected . . 207 Matthew Arnold . . 208 Alfred Tennyson . . 209 Susan Coolidge . 210 Charles Tennyson . . . 210 Percy Bysshe Shelley 211 George Arnold . 212 Helen Hunt Jackson . 213 12 CONTENTS. The Sweetbrier John G. C. Brainard . . To the Chrysanthemum .... William Cox Bennett . . A September Robin Dinah Muloch Craik . . To a Cricket Eli Shepherd . ... October Dinah Muloch Craik . . Autumn Hare Richard Kendall Munkittrick Partridges Alonzo Teall Worden . . Indian Summer Eudora S. Bumstead . . . A Still Day in Autumn . . . Sarah Helen Whitman . . October .... ... Jones Very Nutting . William Wordsworth -The Squirrel ........ Mary Howitt A Fable Ralph Waldo Emerson . . To the Fringed Gentian . . . William Cullen Bryant Faded Leaves Alice Cary . ... The Death of the Flowers . . . William Cullen Bryant Song of the Harvest Henry Stevenson Washburn The Fields of Corn . . -J- Hazard Hartzell Columbia's Emblem Edna Dean Proctor Maize for the Nation's Emblem November In November A Day of the Indian Summer The Indian Summer " Down to Sleep " . . A November Good-Night Autumn The Last Robin . . . " Bob White "... The Flight of the Birds The Stormy Petrel . . The Stormy Petrel The Flight of the Birds Autumn is Ended . . Three Cunning Crabs . The Coral Insect . . . The Coral Grove . . The Riviera .... The Petrified Fern . The Alps The Child's World . The Flag in Nature . . My Country .... Celia Leighton Thaxter Thomas Hood . Susan Kelly Phillips Sarah Helen Whitman John H. Bryant . Helen Hunt Jackson . Ethel Lynn Beers . Alice Cary . . . Henry Stevenson Washburn George Cooper . . . Harriet McEwen Kimball Park Benjamin . . . Selected Edmund Clarence Stedman J. Hazard Hartzell . Dorothy Wood . Selected . ... James Gates Percival Helen Hunt Jackson Mary Bolles Branch . James Montgomery Selected . Samuel Francis Smith Hesperion .... CONTENTS. 13 An Autumn Sunset Selected z6o Sunset with its Rosy Feet . . . From the Japanese 261 Nightfall John Carver . . .... 262 The Night Wind Eugene Field 262 The Doorway of Sleep . . Ethel Lynn Beers ... . 264 Evening . . Percy Bysshe Shelley . . . 265 Evening .... John Milton 266 POETRY OF WINTER. Winter . . Edmund Spenser . . . 269 Proud Winter Cometh . . . Ernest Warburton Shurtteff 269 Winter . . Dora Read Goodale . . . . 270 Summer and Winter . . Percy Bysshe Shelley . . 271 Winter . . From the German . . . . 272 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket. James Leigh Hunt • ■ 273 A Winter Song . . . William Cox Bennett . 274 Winter ... . Robert Burns .... =75 Frost-Work .... . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 276 Sunrise . . Percy Bysshe Shelley . . .276 Bright Days in Winter . . Selected - 277 The Wind . . . Adelaide Anne Procter . . . 278 The Winds of the Winter . . Paul Hamilton Hayne . ■ 279 Song of the North Wind . . . Selected . . 280 Snow Sorcery .... Charles Lotin Hildrelh . . . 281 A Picture . Josiah Gilbert Holland . . . 282 The First Snow . . . Madeline S- Bridges . • . 283 So the Snow Comes Dow 1 Mary F. Butts . . . . 284 The Snow Storm . Ralph Waldo Emerson . 285 The Beautiful Snow Selected . . 286 The Snow-Bird . . . Hezekiah Butter-worth . 287 Departure of the Swallows . . Translated Jrom Theophile C lautier 288 Winter Birds .... George Cooper .... . . 290 Christmas ... . Walter Scott .... 29: Christmas . . . Alfred Tennyson . . 292 The Holly . . . Eliza Cook ■ 292 To a Pine-Tree . . . . . James Russell Lowell • ■ 294 The Little Christmas-Tree i . . . Susan Coolidge .... • 295 Flowers in Winter . . . . . Samuel Francis Smith • • 297 A Field Flower . . . . . . James Montgomery . . 298 Farewell to the Old Year . . . Sarah Doudney . . • 30° January . . . James Russell Lowell • • -301 14 CONTENTS. Janus and January .... Threshold of the New Year . . The New Year Winter Skating The Ocean ... .... Sea-Mews in Winter Time . . Midwinter To a Thrush Singing in January Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind The Snowstorm .... The Snowstorm Snowflakes . . In February The Sparrows . Snowbirds . . The Chickadee When Icicles Hang by the Wall February February Rain Under the Snow My Window Ivy The Ivy Green Twilight . Cradle Song . . . The Rock-a-By Lady At Evening The Land of Dreams A Winter Night . . Sonnet to Night . Good-Night . . . Night . . . , I-ACE Henry Wadsworth Longfelityuj . 301 Selected . 302 Alfred Tennyson 302 William Culien Bryant .... 304 William Wordsworth .... 304 Richard Henry Dana . . . 306 Jean Ingelow 308 John Townsend Trowbridge . 309 John ICeble 311 William Shakespeare . . . 312 John Greenleaf Whittier . 313 J. Hazard Hartzell ... 314 John Vance Cheney ... 31 5 John Addington Symonds . . .316 Selected . .... .316 Archibald Lampman . . . .317 Sidney Day re 318 William. Shakespeare . - 31 9 James Berry Bensel . . . 320 Charles Turner Dazey . . . .321 Fay Hempstead . . ... 322 Mary Mapes Dodge . . . 323 Charles Dickens . . . 324 Lord George Noel Gordon Byron 325 Selected . . . . 326 Eugene Field . . . 327 Selected . . . 328 H. F. Sargent ... ... 328 Robert Burns .... . . 329 Joseph Blanco White . . • Zlt^ From the German .... 331 Percy Bysshe Shelley . . . .332 POETRY OF SPRING. poetry of Spring. THE ELOQUENCE OF NATURE. O ye, and read at length the mys- tic lore Where some Niagara's dark waters roar. Draw nearer ; tremble at the amaz- ing plan ; See how they scorn the pygmy works of man. Admire the swelling, grand, fore- boding hush, Where they are gathering for the awful rush That bears them thundering down the dizzy steep. To mingle, boiling, in the foamy deep. List to the rumbling of the mighty floods, — Their eloquence is but the type of God's ; Or, note the tempest's wrath, the lightning's glare, The rainbow's image on the cloudy air. Bright, beautiful, divine, too fair to stay. Where all created beauty fades away. Think how the whirlwind's wrath, the thunder's pride, Terrific, echoing from the mountain's side ; Suns, planets, comets, on their pathway rolled. Like brilliant, burning, moving orbs of gold ; The summer's radiant glow, mild autumn's ray, — All, all, the great Creator's might display. 17 18 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Each flower that sheds its fragrance on the air Shows some divinest signet fastened there ; Exalts the soul above this meanest clod, And bids us see and hear a present God, Whose voice of majesty no. words confine, — An eloquence eternal, deep, divine. — Samuel Francis Smith. From *' Poems of Home attd Couniry.^^ THE SEASONS. SO forth issued the seasons of the year ; First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers That freshly budded, and new blooms did bear, In which a thousand birds had built their bowers, That sweetly sung to call forth paramours ; And in his hand a javelin he did bear. And on his head (as fit for warlike stores) A gilt engraven morion he did wear. That, as some did him love, so others did him fear. — Edmund Spenser. THE GLORY OF GOD IN CREATION. THOU art, O God, the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from thee. Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. And all things fair and bright are thine. POETRY OF SPRING. 19 When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through opening vistas into heaven. Those hues that make the sun's decline So soft, so radiant. Lord, are thine. When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes. That sacred gloom, those fires divine. So grand, so countless. Lord, are thine. When youthful Spring around us breathes. Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh, And every flower that Summer wreathes Is born beneath thy kindling eye : Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. — Thomas Moore. MORNING. NOW morning from her orient chambers came. And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill ; Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame. Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill, Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill. And after parting beds of simple flowers. By many streams a little lake did fill. 20 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. — John Keats. SUNSHINE LAND. THEY came in sight of a lovelj shore, Yellow as gold in the morning light ; The sun's own color at noon it wore. And had faded not at the fall of night ; Clear weather or cloudy, — 'twas all as one. The happy hills seemed bathed with the sun. Its secret the sailors could not understand. But they called this country Sunshine Land. What was the secret ? — a simple thing (It will make you smile when once you know) : Touched by the tender iinger of spring, A million blossoms were all aglow ; So many, so many, so small and bright. They covered the hills with a mantle of light ; And the wild bee hummed, and the glad breeze fanned, Through the honeyed fields of Sunshine Land. POETRY OF SPRING. 21 If over the sea we two were bound, What port, dear child, would we choose for ours ? We would sail, and sail, till at last we found This fairy gold of a million flowers. Yet, darling, we'd find, if at home we stayed, Of many small joys our pleasures are made. More near than we think, — very close at hand. Lie the golden fields of Sunshine Land. — Edith Matilda Thomas. SONG OF PRAISE. FAIREST of stars, last in the train of night — If better thou belong not to the dawn — Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines — With every plant, in sign of worship, wave. Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds, That singing up to heaven's gate ascend. Bear on your wings, and in your notes, his praise. — John Milton. THE COMING OF SPRING. THERE 'S something in the air That's new and sweet and rare — A scent of summer things, A whir as if of wings. 22 /'I ™ POETRY OF THE SEASONS. There's something, too, that's new In the color of the blue That's in the morning sky, Before the sun is high. And though on plain and hill 'Tis winter, winter still, There's something seems to say That winter 's had its day. And all this changing tint, This whispering stir and hint Of bud and bloom and wing, Is the coming of the spring. And to-morrow or to-day The brooks will break away From their icy, frozen sleep, And run, and laugh, and leap. And the next thing, in the woods, The catkins in their hoods Of fur and silk will stand, A sturdy little band. And the tassels soft and fine Of the hazel will entwine. And the elder branches show Their buds against the snow. So, silently but swift, Above the wintry drift, The long days gain and gain, Until on hill and plain, — POETRY OF SPRING. 23 Once more, and yet once more, Returning as before, We see the bloom of birth Make young again the earth. — Nora Perry. THE MESSENGER OF SPRING. AIL, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Thou messenger of spring ! ' Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green. Thy certain voice we hear ; Hast thou a star to guide thy path. Or mark the rolling year .'' Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wand'ring through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. 24 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. What time the pea puts on the bloom Thou fliest thy vocal vale. An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, ' Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. No winter in thy year ! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make, with joyful wing. Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the spring. — John Logan. THE VOICE OF SPRING.- I COME, I come ! ye have called me long ; I come o'er the mountains, with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth By the winds which tell of the violet's birth. By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass. By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest bowers. And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veiled with wreaths as Italian plains ; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom. To speak of the ruin or the tomb! POETRY OF SPKIAG. I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth ; The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free. And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright, where my step has been. I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh. And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time. In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ; They are sweeping on to the silvery main. They are flashing down from the mountain brows. They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs. They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. — Felicia D. Hemans. SPRING. 100K all around thee ! How the spring advances ! -^ New life is playing through the gay, green trees. See how, in yonder bower, the light leaf dances To the bird's tread, and to the quivering breeze ! How every blossom in the sunlight glances ! The winter-frost in his dark cavern flees. And earth, warm-wakened, feels through every vein The kindling influence of the vernal rain. 26 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. How silvery streamlets, from the mountain stealing, Dance joyously the verdant vales along ; Cold fear no more the songster tongue is stealing, Down in the thick dark grove is heard his song ; And all their bright and lovely hues revealing, A thousand plants the field and forest throng ; Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers, And mingling rainbows play among the flowers. — Ludwig Tieck. o A SPRING SONG. SPRING-TIME sweet ! Over the hills come thy lovely feet ; The earth's white mantle is cast away, She clothes herself all in green to-day ; And the little flowers that hid from the cold Are springing anew from the warm, fresh mold. O Spring-time sweet ! The whole earth smiles thy coming to greet ; Our hearts to their inmost depths are stirred By the first spring flower and the song of the bird ; Our sweet, strange feelings no room can find, They wander like dreams through heart and mind. O Spring-time sweet ! Now the old and the new in thy soft hours meet ! The dear, dead joys of the days long past. The brightness and beauty that could not last, Their fair ghosts rise with the ending of snow, — The springs and the summers of long ago. POETRY OF SPRING. 27 O Spring-time sweet ! With silent hope thy coming I greet ; For all that in winter the bright earth lost Doth rise, new-born, with the ending of frost ; Even so shalt thou bring me — at last, at last ! — All the hope and the joy and the love of the past. — Translated by James Freeman Clarke. SONG IN MARCH. NOW are the winds about us in their glee. Tossing the slender tree ; Whirling the sands about his furious car, March cometh from afar ; Breaks the sealed magic of old winter's dreams, And rends his glassy streams ; Chafing with potent airs, he fiercely takes Their fetters from the lakes, And with a power by queenly Spring supplied, Wakens the slumbering tide. With a wild love he seeks young Summer's charms, And clasps her in his arms ; Lifting his shield between, he drives away Old Winter from his prey ; The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves Goes howling to his caves ; And, to his northern realm compelled to fly, Yields up the victory ; Melted are all his bands, o'erthrown his towers, And March comes bringing flowers. — William Gilmore Simnts. 28 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. MARCH. THE stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies ; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies. Ah, passing few are they who speak. Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee ; Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak. Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring ; And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. Then sing aloud the gushing rills In joy that they again are free, And, brightly leaping down the hills. Renew their journey to the sea. Thou bring' st the hope of those calm skies. And that soft time of sunny showers. When the wide bloom, on earth that lies. Seems of a brighter world than ours. — William Cullen Bryant. THE WIND. THE wind has a language, I would I could learn ; Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stem ; Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song. And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along ; POETRY OF SPUING. -29 And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain ; And slumber sinks down on the wandering main, And its crystal arms are folded in rest, And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast. — Letitia Elizabeth Landon. THE WIND IN A FROLIC. THE wind one morning sprang up from- sleep, Saying, " Now for a frolic ! Now for a leap ! Now for a madcap, galloping chase ! I'll make a commotion in every place ! " So it -swept with a bustle right through a great town, Creaking the signs, and scattering down Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls. Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls. There never was heard a much lustier shout, As the apples and oranges tumbled about ; And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes Forever on watch ran off with each prize. Then away to the fields it went blustering and humming. And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming. It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows, And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows. Till offended at such a familiar salute. They all turned their backs and stood silently mute. So on it went capering and playing its pranks ; Whistling with reeds on the broad river-banks ; Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, Or the traveler grave on the king's highway. 30 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. It was not too nice to bustle the bags Of the beggar and flutter his dirty rags. 'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak. Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, " Now, You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow ! " And it made them bow without more ado, Or it cracked their branches through and through. Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm, Striking their inmates with sudden alarm ; And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps. To see if their poultry were free from mishaps ; The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud. And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd ; There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on. Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone. But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain, For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud. — William Howitt. MARCH. THE March wind whistles through the somber pines. Whose sable crests show on the mountain ridge, Like band of specters, gaunt and gray and grim. Against the cold blue sky ; cold, clear, and blue Without one fleecy cloud. POETRY OF SPRING. 31 From furrows brown The green blades shoot, that shall hereafter glow, 'Neath August sun-rays, into molten gold, And fill our garners with the bounteous store That crowns man's labor, and rewards his toil. March, with his stern, grand brow, frowning, yet kind. Front of a Titan ; of imperious will, King March rides blustering o'er dale and mead. And with his chastening rule, prepares the way. For green-robed April, with her showers soft, The pure warm sunshine, and her opening buds Of yellow cowslip bells. And jocund May, Crowned with white blossoms, scatters in her track Hawthorns all odorous, pink apple-blooms. And all the gorgeous beauty of her dower, That glads our English homes. So in our life, Our truest joys must be from trial reaped, And as March winds foreshadow April sun. Our dross through furnace passing, comes out, — gold — All The Year Round. A SAIL ON THE CLOUDS. THERE'S a beautiful cloud-fleet passing by. With white sails all unfurled ; Let's take a sail o'er the blue expanse. And visit the mystery-world. We'll sail and sail o'er the spacious sea With the pilot Breeze to steer. And never come back to the earthland sweet, For a day and a month and a year. 32 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. We'll visit the place where the little dame Plucks wool from the fleecy clouds, And weaves it into the snow-white robes That are sent for the winter shrouds. We'll sail to the West when the day is done. And watch while the artist's hand Is painting the glow in the sunset sky With gorgeous colors and grand. And we'll see how he fills his treasure jars With pigments of brilliant dye, Where red and yellow and crimson tints With the royal colors vie. For these he must use when the harvest moon Looks down on the ripened sheaves, And the time has come to brighten the earth By painting the forest leaves. We'll watch the sun as his chariot rolls Far down the horizon's rim. And he carries the beautiful day along. And earthland is growing dim. Then we'll sail to the North where the Major Beat Is holding his dipper of rain. And we'll listen to hear how the flowers laugh As he empties it over the plain. We'll explore the place where the comet abides And brushes her hair of gold, Or plays coquette with the polar star. Or dances with meteors bold. Then we'll skim the cream from the milky way. And make us a choice repast, POETRY OF SPRING. 33 And lay us to sleep upon downy beds, And dream while the night shall last. Then waking, we'll sail to the reddening East, Where Morning comes in at the gate. And watch the sun with his prancing steeds Ride up to the door in state. Then again o'er the boundless blue we'll float, Far off in the ether clear, And never come back to the earthland sweet, For a day and a month and a year. — Mary L. Wyatt. T- II I ' I I ^;;3|giii^i«i ^*.-'\ 1 V> \i THE SONG OF THE RAIN. O ! the long, slender spears, how they quiver and flash Where the clouds send their cavalry down ! Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash Over mountain and river and town : Thick the battle-drops fall — but they drip not in blood ; The trophy of war is the green, fresh bud : O, the rain, the plentiful rain ! E 34 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare. The wells they yawn empty and dry ; But a rushing of waters is heard in the air. And a rainbow leaps out in the sky. Hark ! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves. How they wash the wide pavement, and sweep from the eaves. O, the rain, the plentiful rain ! See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane. The kind drops dance in on the floor ; And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain On the step by her half-open door ; At the tune on the skylight, far over his head, Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed. O, the rain, the plentiful rain ! And away, far from men, where high mountains tower. The little green mosses rejoice. And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower, And the hill-torrents lift up their voice : And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light : O, the rain, the plentiful rain ! And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain, A single thrush pipes full and sweet. How days of clear shining will come after rain, Waving meadows, and thick-growing wheat ; So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears. Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears : O, the rain, the plentiful rain ! — The Spectator FOE TRY OF SPRING. 85 THE RAINBOW. TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky. When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven ! Can all that optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamed of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow .' When science from creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams. But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When o'er the green undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou didst shine. How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign ! 36 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. And when its yellow luster smiled O'er mountains yet untrod. Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Thomas Campbell. LEARN A LITTLE EVERY DAY. LITTLE rills make wider streamlets, -/ Streamlets swell, the rivers flow ; Rivers join the mountain billows, Onward as they go ! Life is made of smaller fragments, Shade and sunshine, work or play ; So may we with greater profit. Learn a little every day. Tiny seeds make boundless harvests. Drops of rain compose the showers, Seconds make the flying minutes. And the minutes make the hours. Let us hasten then and catch them. As they pass us on the way. And with honest true endeavor. Learn a little every day. Let us read some striking passage, Cull a verse from every page, Here a line and there a sentence, 'Gainst the lonely time of age. POETRY OF SPRING. At our work, or by the wayside, While the sun is making hay, Thus we may by help of study Learn a little every day. 37 - Selected THE BROOK I COME from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges ; By twenty thorps, a little town. And half a hundred bridges. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. 38 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. With many a curve my banks I fret, By many a field and fallow. And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout. And here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses. POETRY OF SPRING. 39 And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. — Alfred Tennyson, THE RIVER. OTELL me, pretty river ! Whence do thy waters flow ? And whither art thou roaming. So smoothly and so slow ? My birthplace was the mountain. My nurse the April showers ; My'cradle was the fountain, O'er-curtained by wild flowers. One morn I ran away, A madcap, noisy rill ; And many a prank that day, I played adown the hill ! And then 'mid meadow banks, I flirted with the flowers, That stooped with glowing lips. To woo me to their bowers. But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave ; I hear the ocean's roar — And there must be my grave. — Selected. 40 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. THE HYLODES. (Peeping Frogs.) THE Hylodes ! The Hylodes ! Throw up the window-shades. The Hylodes are trooping up The meadows and the glades. I hear them piping near and far, A gleeful band are they, Who, for a mighty carnival, Prepare the joyous way ! Oh, hear them by the river side, And in the shaded rill — Their trumpets make the forests ring And echo from the hill ; The rustling reeds and rushes, where The mole has built his nest. And grasses by the water's edge Are startled from their rest ; The jay his jingling bell has struck ; The melancholy crow Has called aloud from all the trees And fluttered to and fro; The titmouse and the winter wren. And buntings on the plain. Have heard the piping Hylodes, And joined in their refrain ! Aye, now the wilderness shall sing, The desert bloom in grace. And glad shall be the desolate And solitary place. POETRY OF SPRING. 41 The Hylodes ! The Hylodes ! They're coming everywhere, Their pipes are wild and garrulous, And madly storm the air ; They come as mottled harlequins. In yellow vests, I ween. Who dance before the stately hosts Of lords in bottle-green ; They gambol in the wintry pool. And by the flecks of snow, . And chase each other in the bog Where hoods of purple grow ; And when the calm, reluctant day Is filled with pensive light. And evening shadows creep along Before the stealthy night. Then listen to the Hylodes, Whose myriad notes arise As if a host of sprites had come From Gabriel in the skies. The April cloud is on the wing. The dew is on the lea. And soon the violet shall smile And speak of love to thee ; The sweet hepatica has heard. And troops of daffodils Are throwing kisses to the light. And nodding to the rills ; The flowers that long have slumbered 'neath The bleak and barren ledge — And where the winter hare has crept Beside the water's edge — 42 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. All deftly with their finger-tips Their coverlets have stirred. For now the resurrection notes Of Hylodes are heard. The Hylodes ! The Hylodes ! Oh, hear them as they come ! The robin and the blue-bird now We gladly welcome home; The sparrow and the meadow-lark, And all the winged throng, Shall drench the woodland and the fields In floods of joyous song ; And when the thrush within the dell His heavenly note shall sound. And when the bobolink shall fall In rapture to the ground, And when the drum-beat of the grouse Shall signal far away, And light shall tremble on the leaf And ripple in the day, — Then shall the mottled Hylodes, In leafy bowers above, In silence and in perfect bliss, Dream all the day of love. — Lewis G. Wilson. THE SEA. THE Sea it is deep, the Sea it is wide; And it girdeth the earth on every side, On every side it girds it round, With an undecaying, mighty bound. POETRY OF SPRING. 43 Like a youthful giant roused from sleep, At Creation's call uprose the Deep ; And his crested waves tossed up their spray, As the bonds of his ancient rest gave way ; And a voice went up in that stillness vast, As if life through a mighty heart had passed. Oh, ancient, wide, unfathomed Sea, Ere the mountains were, God fashioned thee ; And he gave, in thine awful depths to dwell, Things like thyself untamable — The Dragons old, and the Harpy brood. Were the lords of thine early solitude ! But night came down on that ancient day. And that mighty race was swept away ; And death thy fathomless depths passed through, And thy waters melted out anew ; And then on thy calmer breast were seen The verdant crests of islands green ; And mountains in their strength came forth, And trees and flowers arrayed the earth ; Then the Dolphin first his gambols played In his rainbow-tinted scales arrayed ; And down below, all fretted and frore. Were wrought the coral and madrepore, And among the sea-weeds green and red. Like flocks of the valley the Turtles fed ; And the sea-flowers budded and opened wide In the luster of waters deepened and dyed ; And the little Nautilus set afloat On thy bounding tide his pearly boat ; And the Whale sprang forth in his vigorous play. And shoals of the Flying-fish leaped into day ; 44 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. And the Pearl-fish under thy world of waves Laid up his stores in the old sea-caves. — Mary JHowitt. APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. ROLL on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncofifined, and unknown. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they .■' Thy waters wasted them while they were free And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou ; Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play — POETRY OF SPRING. 45 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow : Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale or storm Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 't was a pleasing fear ; For I was, as it were, a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. — Lord George Noel Gordon Byron. ■ THE LITTLE BROWN SEED. I'M of no use," said a little brown seed ; "Where shall I go and hide .' I'm little and brown, with nobody's love, And ugly beside." 46 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. So she rolled and she rolled very quickly away, And tumbled on the ground ; The rain came in torrents, and fell upon her And all things around. And she felt herself sinking in darkness beneath. Poor little faithless seed ! Where never an eye could see her sad fate, Oh, she was hidden indeed! The little brown seed lay still in the earth, To herself still sighing, Till at last with an effort she roused up, and cried, "I'll begin by trying. " I'll try and stop fretting, for 'tis of no use. And if I've nobody's love, I'll look up in hope, for there's one who will see. The dear God above." Oh, would you believe it ! straightway the dark ground Began to tremble and shake. And make way for the little seed, hopeful now, , Her upward way to take 1 Up, up she went, till at last she saw The lovely, bright blue sky ; Oh, the beautiful spirit had found release. And the summer time was nigh ! The brightness and beauty that grew upon her, I cannot begin to speak ; Crowned with flowers she stood, beloved by all, So lovely, ^ yet so meek. By permission. — Harriett Mulford Lothrop. FOE TRY OF SPRING. 47 BE PATIENT. BE patient ! oh, be patient ! Put your ear against the earth ; Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth — How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way, Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in day. Be patient ! oh, be patient ! The germs of mighty thought Must have their silent undergrowth — must underground be wrought ; But as sure as there's a Power that makes the grass ap- pear. Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be here. Be patient ! oh, be patient ! Go and watch the wheat-ears grow — So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe — Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown — And then again, day after day, till the ripened field is brown. Be patient ! oh, be patient ! Though yet our hopes are green, The harvest-fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen. Be ripening ! be ripening ! — mature your silent way. Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on freedom's — Richard C. Trench . 48 POETKY OF THE SEASONS. WONDERFUL. ISN'T it wonderful, when you think, How the creeping grasses grow, High on the mountain's rocky brink, In the valleys down below ? A common thing is a grass-blade small. Crushed by the feet that pass, ■ — But all the dwarfs and giants tall, Working till Doomsday-shadows fall. Can't make a blade of grass. Isn't it wonderful, when you think. How a little seed asleep. Out of the earth new life will drink. And carefully upward creep ? — A seed, we say, is a simple thing. The germ of a flower or weed, — But all Earth's workmen, laboring, With all the help that wealth could bring. Never could make a seed. Isn't it wonderful, when you think, How the wild bird sings his song. Weaving melodies, link by link. The whole sweet summer long 1 Common-place is a bird, alway. Everywhere seen and heard, — But all the engines of earth, I say, Working on till the Judgment Day, Never could make a bird. POETRY OF SPRING. 49 Isn't it wonderful, when you think, How a httle baby grows. From his big round eyes, that wink and blink, Down to his tiny toes ? Common thing is a baby though, All play the baby's part, — But all the whirling wheels that go,. Flying round while the ages flow, Can't make a baby's heart. — Julian S. Cutler. GRASS. HE rose is praised for its beam ng face. The lily for saintly whiteness ; We love this bloom for its languid grace. And that for its airy lightness. We say of the oak, " How grand of girth ! '" Of the willow we say, " How slender ! " And yet to the soft grass, clothing earth. How slight is the praise \ye render. But the grass knows well in her secret heart How we love her cool, green raiment ; So she plays in silence her lonely part. And cares not at all for payment. Each year her buttercups nod and drowse, With sun and dew brimming over ; Each year she pleases the greedy cows With oceans of honeyed clover. 50 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Each_year on the earth's wide breast she waves From spring until stern November ; And then she remembers so many graves That no one else will remember. And while she serves us with gladness mute In return for such sweet dealings, We tread her carelessly under foot, Yet we never wound her feelings. — Edgar Fawcett. TREE-PLANTING. JOY for the sturdy trees ; Fanned by each fragrant breeze, Lovely they stand. The song-birds o'er them trill ; They shade each tinkling rill ; They crown each swelling hill, Lowly or grand. Plant them by stream and way, Plant them where children play. And toilers rest ; In every verdant vale. On every sunny swale ; — Whether to grow or fail, God knoweth best. Select the strong, the fair ; Plant them with earnest care, — No toil is vain ; POETRY OF SFRING. 51 Plant in a fitter place, Where, like a lovely face Set in some sweeter grace, Change may prove gain. God will his blessing send ; All things on Him depend, — His loving care Clings to each leaf and flower. Like ivy to its tower, — His presence and His power Are everywhere. — Samuel Francis Smith. From '*Poefns of Home and Country.*^ THE FIRST CROCUS. DO. you know where the cro- cus blows ? Under the snows ; Wide eyed and winsome and daintily fair As waxen exotic, close-tended and rare ; Every child knows Where the first crocus blows. Do you know why the crocus grows Under the snows ^ To tell that the winter is over and gone. And soon bird and blossom will gladden the lawn. 52 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. And the hedgerows Where the first crocus blows. Do you know when the crocus grows Under the snows ? When Httle ones sleep in their warm downy beds, With mother-hands smoothing their dear curly heads ; While the storm goes Where the first crocus blows. Do you know while the crocus grows Under the snows, That One smileth softly and says, " I will send This promise that all stormy times have an end ? " So our Lord knows Where the first crocus blows. Reprintedby pertnUsionfroni " Catnp Fire, Memoruil Day, and Other Poems^^ by Kate Brownlee Sherwood, published and copyrighted by A. C. McClurg & Company. THE SNOWDROP. THE herald of the flowers, Sent with its small white flag of truce, to plead For its beleagured brethren ; suppliantly It prays stern winter to withdraw his troop Of wind and blustering storms, and, having won A smile of promise from its pitying foe. Returns to tell the issue of its errand To the expectant host. — SelecUd. POETRY OF SPRING. ' 53 SPRING. (After Meleager.) NOW the bright crocus flames, and now The slim narcissus takes the rain, And, straying o'er the mountain's brow, The daffodillies bud again. The thousand blossoms wax and wane On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough, But fairer than the flowers art thou. Than any growth of hill or plain. Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown. That my Love's feet may tread it down. Like lilies on the lilies set ; My Love, whose lips are softer far Than drowsy poppy petals are, And sweeter than the violet. — Andrew Lancr. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, On Turning One Down with a Plow. WEE, modest, crimson-tippM flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour. For I maun crush amang the stoure ' Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. \ stoure^ dust. 54 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet. Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,i Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter, biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted ^ forth Amid the storm. Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's ' maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield* O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field. Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad. Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed. And low thou lies ! Such fate to suffering worth is given. Who lang with wants and woes has striven. By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, 1 Weet^ rain, wetness. 3 J^a's, walls, 2 Glinted, peeped. , ^ Random bield, casual shelter. POETRY OF SPRING. 55 Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink! Even thou, who mourn'st the daisy's fate. That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's plowshare drives elate Full on thy bloom, Till, crushed beneath the furrow's weight. Shall be thy doom ! - Robert Burns. TO THE FIRST ROBIN. A WELCOME warm awaits thee, Bright herald of the spring ; Thy voice of winning sweet- ness Has still its merry ring. The winter days are over. And buttercups and clover Will gladden all the way In which thy feet may stray. Whilst thou singest, singest Thy old- familiar song, As the seasons roll along Robin, Robin ! Thou hast tarried long and late, A questioner of fate. Feeling cautiously thy way. In thy coming day by day. 56 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Now take a crumb or two, And cheer thee up anew ; The pastures, bleak and sere. In beauty will appear ; And the roaring northern blast Be a memory of the past. Whilst thou singest, singest Thy old familiar song. As the seasons roll along, Robin, Robin! Oh, thou'lt be surpassing sweet. With thy nimble little feet Tripping lightly o'er the lawn At the breaking of the dawn. And "Good-morning, summer's coming." Not a harbinger of spring, <<; However sweetly he may sing, ^ Can sing as thou singest, singest Thy old familiar song. As the seasons roll along, Robin, Robin ! — Henry Stevenson Washburn. From " The Vacant Chair attd Other Poems. ^^ THE ENGLISH ROBIN. SEE yon robin on the spray ; Look ye how his tiny form Swells, as when his merry lay Gushes forth amid the storm. POETRY OF SPRING. 57 Though the snow is falling fast, Specking o'er his coat with white, — Though loud roars the chilly blast. And the evening's lost in night, — Yet from out the darkness dreary Cometh still that cheerful note ; Praiseful aye, and never weary. Is that little warbling throat. Thank him for his lesson's sake. Thank God's gentle minstrel there. Who, when storms make others quake. Sings of days that brighter were. — Harrison Weir. THE BLUEBIRD. WHEN winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, Green meadows and brown furrow'd fields re-ap- pearing, The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore. And cloud-clearing geese to the lakes are a-steering ; When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing. When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, O then comes the bluebird, the herald of spring ! And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring ; Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather ; The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring. And spicewood and sassafras budding together ; 58 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. O then to your gardens ye housewives repair, Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure ; The bluebird will chant from his box such an air. That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure ! He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree. The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms ; He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, The worm from the webs, where they riot and welter ; His song and his services freely are ours, And all that he asks is — in summer a shelter. The plowman is pleased when he gleans in his train. Now searching the furrows — now mounting to cheer him ; The gard'ner delights in his sweet, simple strain. And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him ; The slow ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid, While gazing intent as he warbles before them In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red. That each little loiterer seems to adore him. When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er. And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow, And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before, Have fled in the train of the sun -seeking swallow ; The bluebird, forsaken, yet true to his home. Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow. Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam, He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow. .— Alexander Wilson. POETRY OF SPRING. 59 APRIL, EVER FRAIL AND FAIR. r AT last young April, ever frail and fair, -iV Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair. Chased to the margin of receding floods O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, In tears and blushes sighs herself away. And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. APRIL. SPRING ! the beautiful Spring is conimg, The sun shines bright and the bees are humming, And the fields are rich with the early flowers, Beds of crocus and daisies white. And, under the nodding hedgerow, showers Of the ficary golden bright ! Come, come, let you and me Go out, and the promise of Springtime see, For many a pleasant nook I know. Where the hooded arum and bluebell grow. And crowds of violets white as snow ; — Come, come, let's go ! Let's go, for hark ! I hear the lark ; And the blackbird and the thrush on the hill-side tree Shout to each other so merrily ; And the wren sings loud, And a little crowd Of gnats dance cheerily. 60 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Come, come ! come along with me. For the tassels are red on the tall larch tree, And in homesteads hilly. The spathed daffodilly Is growing in beauty for me and thee. — Mary Howitt. APRIL. APRIL cold with dropping rain Ir\. Willows and lilacs bring again. The whistle of returning birds And trumpet -lowing of the herds ; The scarlet maple-keys betray What potent blood hath modest May ; What fiery force the earth renews. The wealth of forms, the flush of hues ; What joy in rosy waves outpoured. Flows from the heart of love, the Lord. — Ralph Waldo Emerson. IN APRIL. APRIL is here ! 1- Listen, a bluebird is caroling near ! Low and sweet is the song he sings. As he sits in the sunshine with folded wings. And looks from the earth that is growing green To the warm blue skies that downward lean. As a mother does, to kiss the child That has looked up into her face and smiled. POETRY OF SPRING. 61 Earth has been sleeping, and now she wakes, And the kind sky-mother bends and takes The laughing thing in her warm embrace. And scatters her kisses over its face, And every kiss will grow into a flower To brighten with beauty a coming hour. April is here ! Blithest season of all the year. The little brook laughs as it leaps away ; The lambs are out on the hills at play ; The warm south wind sings, the whole day long, The merriest kind of a wordless song. Gladness is born of the April weather. And the heart is as light as a wind-tossed feather. Who could be sad on a day like this .' The care that vexed us no longer is. If we sit down at the great tree's feet We feel the pulses of Nature beat. There's an upward impulse in every thing ; Look up and be glad, is the law of Spring, And, as flowers grow under last year's leaves. New hopes arise in the heart that grieves Over the grave of a gladness dead. And the soul that sorrowed is comforted. April is here ! I know there's a blossom somewhere near. For the south wind tosses into my room A hint of summer, — a vague perfume It has pilfered somewhere (I cannot tell Whether from pansy or pimpernel). But it sets me dreaming of birds and bees. And the odorous snowstorms of apple-trees ; POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Of roses sweet by the garden wall, And milk-white lilies, stately and tall ; Of clover red in the morning sun, And withered and dead when the sun is done ; Of the song that the stalwart mower sings, Of gladness, and beauty, and all sweet things That summer brings. — Eben Eugene Rexford. APRIL. " A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye, Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky." ■ — Wordsworth. I HAVE found violets. April hath come on, And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time. You may hear birds at morning, and at eve The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls. Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in His beautiful, bright neck ; and, from the hills, A murmur, like the hoarseness of the sea. Tells the release of waters, and. the earth Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves Are lifted by the grass ; and so I know That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard The drooping of the velvet foot of Spring. Take of my violets ! I found them where The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank That leaned to running water. There's to me A daintiness about these early flowers, POETRY OF SPRING . 63 That touches me like poetry. They blow With such a simple loveliness among The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. I love to go in the capricious days Of April and hunt violets, when the rain Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. It may be deemed too idle, but the young Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven, And call the flowers its poetry. Go out ! Ye spirits of habitual unrest. And read it, when the "fever of the world " Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life Hath yet one spring unpoisoned, it will be Like a beguiling music to its flow. And you will no more wonder that I love To hunt for violets in- the April-time. — Nathaniel Parker Willis. Si POETRY OF THE SEASONS. APRIL. " The Spring comes slowly up this way." — Coleridge. '' I "IS the moon of the spring time, yet never a bird -I- In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard ; For green meadow grasses, wide levels of snow. And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow ; Where windflower and violet, amber and white, On south-sloping brook-sides should smile in the light, O'er the cold winter beds of their late waking roots, The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots ; And longing for light, under wind-driven heaps Round the boles of the pine wood the ground laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers. With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers ! We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south, For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth, For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod ! — John Greenleaf Whittier. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. OH, to be in England, Now that April's there. And whoever wakes in England See's, some morning, unaware. That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England, — now! POETRY OF SPRING. 65 And after April, when May follows, And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows, — Hark ! where my blossom 'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dew-drops, at the bent spray's edge, — That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine, careless ra,pture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew. All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower. — Robert Browning. IN APRIL. THE poplar drops beside the way Its tasseled plumes of silver-gray ; The chestnut ponts its great brown buds Impatient for the laggard May. The honeysuckles lace the wall. The hyacinths grow fair and tall ; And mellow sun and pleasant wind And odorous bees are over all. — Elizabeth Akers Allen. ORIGIN OF VIOLETS. I KNOW, blue modest violets. Gleaming with dew at morn — I know the place you come from. And the way that you are born ! POETRY OF THE SEASONS. When God cut holes in Heaven, The holes the stars look through, He let the scraps fall down to earth, ■ The little scraps are you. — Selected. THE YELLOW VIOLET. ■'W HEN beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue- bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from the last year's leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume. Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare. To meet thee, when thy faint perfume Alone is in the virgin air. Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mold. And I have seen thee blossoming Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. Thy parent sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip. Has bathed thee in his own bright hue. And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. POETRY OF SPRING. 67 Yet slight thy form and low thy seat, And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet, When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. Oft, in the sunless April day. Thy early smile has stayed my walk ; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they who climb to wealth forget The friends in darker fortunes tried.; I copied them — but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride. And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light, I'll not o'erlook the modest flower That made the woods of April bright. — William Cullen Bryant. TO DAFFODILS. FAIR daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon : Stay, stay. Until the hasting day Has run But to the even song ; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along 1 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die. As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew. Ne'er to be found again. — Robert Herrick. 'TIS THE WHITE ANEMONE. ^IS the white anemone, fash- ioned so Like to the stars of the winter snow, First thinks, " If I come too soon no doubt I shall seem but the snow that stayed too long. So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguessed scout," And wide she wanders the woods among. Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places, Smile meek moonlight-colored faces Of pale primroses puritan, In maiden sisterhood demure ; Each virgin floweret faint and wan With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure. POETRY OF SPRING. 69 And the borage, blue-eyed, with a thrill of pride (For warm is her welcome on every side). From Elfland coming to take her place. Gay garments of verdant velvet takes All creased from the delicate traveling-case Which a warm breeze breaks. The daisy awakes And opens her wondering eyes, yet red About the rims with a too long sleep ; Whilst, bold from his ambush, with helm on head And lance in rest, doth the bulrush leap. — Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton {Owen MerediiK). THE DAFFODILS. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils ; Beside the Jake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay ; Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; 70 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. — William Wordsworth. THE BLUE JAY. OBLUE JAY up in the maple tree, Shaking your throat with such bursts of glee. How did you happen to be so blue t Did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest, And fasten blue violets into your vest t Tell me, I pray you, — tell me true ! Did you dip your wings in azure dye. When April began to paint the sky. That was pale with the winter's stay .' Or were you hatched from a bluebell bright, 'Neath the warm, gold breast of a sunbeam light, By the river one blue spring day } O Blue Jay up in the maple tree, A-tossing your saucy head at me, With ne'er a word for my questioning, Pray, cease for a moment your " ting-a-link," And hear when I tell you what I think, — You bonniest bit of the spring. POETRY OF SPRING. 71 I think when the fairies made the flowers, To grow in these mossy fields of ours, Periwinkles and violets rare, There was left of the spring's own color, blue, Plenty to fashion a flower whose hue Would be richer than all and as fair. So, putting their wits together, they Made one great blossom so bright and gay. The lily beside it seemed blurred ; And then they said, " We will toss it in air ; So many blue blossoms grow everywhere. Let this pretty one be a bird ! " — Susan Hartley Swett. THE MUSIC OF NATURE. THE song of Nature is forever. Her joyous voices falter never ; On hill and valley, near and far, Attendant her musicians are. From waterbrook or forest tree For aye comes gentle melody ; The very air is music blent, A universal instrument. When hushed are bird and brook and wind, Then silence will some measure find, Still sweeter ; as a memory Is sweeter than the things that be. — John Vance Cheney. 72 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. THE BLUEBIRD. LISTEN a moment, I pray you ; what was that sound - that I heard ? Wind in the budding branches, the ripple of brooks, or a bird ? Hear it again, above us ! and see a flutter of wings ! The bluebird knows it is April, and soars toward the sun and sings. Never the song of the robin could make my heart so glad ; When I hear the bluebird singing in spring, I forget to be sad. Hear it ! a ripple of music ! sunshine changed into song! It sets me thinking of summer when the days and their dreams are long. Winged lute that we call a bluebird, you blend in a silver strain The sound of the laughing water, the patter of spring's sweet rain. The voice of the winds, the sunshine, and fragrance of blossoming things. Ah ! you are an April poem, that God has dowered with wings ! — Eben Eugene Rexford. THE GOLDEN ORIOLES. THEY both were artists, gathering hair and hay, And built their hidden cot with twittering joy, When orchards smiled with blossoms through the day, And brooklets sang with gladness but were coy. POETRY OF SPRING. 73 The eggs were tempting in the cherished nest, Which hung and swayed secure from bending limbs ; When soon the birdlings came with orange breast, And listening morn was charmed by woodland hymns. With bits of tune, and gold on fluttering plume. And hungry bills, they flew in search of food, When sleeping fields awoke in vernal bloom, And welcomed there the richly painted brood. They added beauty, grace, and song to earth. Beneath the amorous love of kissing skies. When roses, wafting their perfume, found birth, And all the world became a paradise. — J. Hazard Hartzell. IN APRIL. WHAT did the sparrows do yesterday .' Nobody knew but the sparrows ; He were too bold who should try to say ; They have forgotten it all to-day. 74 POETRY OF THE SEASONS. Why should it haunt my thoughts this way. With a joy that piques and harrows, As the birds fly past. And the chimes ring fast, And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast ? There's a maple-bud redder to-day ; It will almost flower to-morrow ; I could swear 'twas only yesterday In a sheath of snow and ice it lay, With fierce winds blowing it every way ; Whose surety had it to borrow, Till birds should fly past, And chimes ring fast, And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast ? Was there ever a day like to-day. So clear, so shining, so tender ? The old cry out ; and the children say, With a laugh, aside : That's always the way With the old, in spring ; as long as they stay, They find in it greater splendor. When the birds fly past, And the chimes ring fast. And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast. Then that may be why my thoughts all day — I see I am old, by the token — Are so haunted by sounds, now sad, now gay, Of the words I hear the sparrows say. And the maple bud's mysterious way By which from its sheath it has broken, POETRY OF SPRING. 75 And the birds fly past, And the chimes ring fast, And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast. — Helen Hunt jfackson. ^:v/^. l*ttft