  Spring, with that nameless Which dwells with all things fair— Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods, the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court, with green festoons, The banks of dark In the deep heart of every forest tree, The blood is all aglee; And there’s a look about the leafless bowers, As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still, on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season’s dawn; Or where, like those strange That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature’s scorn, The brown of Autumn corn. The Woods in Spring The Woods in Spring As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, And soon will burst their tomb. In gardens, you may note, amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth; And near the snowdrop’s tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and showers need must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose’s mouth. Still there’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn, In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times, a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech’s heart, A blue-eyed “Behold me! I am May!” Henry Timrod. |
|
