Tag: Spring

Poetry - The First Of May

Poetry – The First Of May

The haw-thorn blos-som, snow-y white, Hangs thick upon the hedge to-day; With many flow-ers the fields are bright Upon this mer-ry First of May. So let us ga-ther flow-er-ets fair, And blos-soms from the haw-thorn spray, To deck our May-pole stand-ing there, Upon this mer-ry First of May. And then, like fai-ries, in a ring, A-round it we will dance or play, And all our glad-dest songs will sing Upon this mer-ry First of May. And dear-est Maud shall there be seen With crown of haw-thorn blos-soms gay, And she shall be our lit-tle queen, Upon this mer-ry First of

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Poetry – May Evening

SILENCE and peace. The warm, love-bringing NightFrom the pure zenith soft and slow descendingLulls the sweet air to rest, with the day’s ending,Save where the dark bat wheels his fickle flight.Deep glows the rosy-golden West, still bright,Beyond the plumy toss of elms down-bending,Whilst on the close-cut lawns, blurring and bending,Tall chapel-windows cast their ruddy light. Now the clear blue of the mid dome of heavenDarkens, immeasurably deep and still.That one full star which ushers in the evenBurns in rapt glory o’er the steadfast spire;And the Night-angel strews at his sweet willThe silvern star-dust of the heavenly choir. — George Allan

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Poetry – April Showers

“Thou makest the earth soft with showers: Thou bless-est the spring-ing there-of.” —PSALM lxv. 10. When A-pril skies be-gin to frown, And the cold rain comes pelt-ing down, We must not grum-ble nor com-plain, Nor i-dly say, we hate the rain. God sends the rain; the dust-y ground It soft-ens in the fields a-round; The mois-ture ev-e-ry plant re-ceives, And springs a-fresh in flow-ers and leaves. Should God for-bid the show-ers to fall, Nor send us any rain at all, The ground would all grow hard and dry, And ev-e-ry liv-ing plant would die. All things would starve and per-ish

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Poetry – Spring Morning

Now the moisty wood discloses Wrinkled leaves of primèroses, While the birds, they flute and sing: Build your nests, for here is Spring. All about the open hills Daisies shew their peasant frills, Washed and white and newly spun For a festival of sun. Like a blossom from the sky, Drops a yellow butterfly, Dancing down the hedges grey Snow-bestrewn till yesterday. Squirrels skipping up the trees Smell how Spring is in the breeze, While the birds, they flute and sing: Build your nests, for here is Spring. — Frances Cornford

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Poetry – The Snow-Drop (Mower)

Sweet little unassuming flower,It stays not for an April shower,But dares to rear its tiny head,While threat’ning clouds the skies o’erspread. It ne’er displays the vain desireTo dress in flaunting gay attire;No purple, scarlet, blue, or gold,Deck its fair leaves when they unfold. Born on a cold and wintry night,Its flowing robes were snowy white;No vernal zephyrs fan its form—It often battles with the storm. It never drank mild summer’s dew,But chilling winds around it blew;And hoary frost his mantle spreadUpon the little snow-drop’s bed. I love this modest little flower;—It comes in desolation’s hourThe barren landscape’s face to cheer,When

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