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Spring Poems
Spring poems that speak of flowers and new-ness are my favorites. Nature in spring is a time of renewal, rebirth and starting over. The natural world is bursting with life. It is a time where the relationships between us are clearly seen. Gardeners and farmers plants food crops. And birds hunt among the food crops to pick off insects to feed their young. This is the cycle of interdepedence and renewal. The poems collected are from two of my favorite nature poets, John Clare (1793-1864) and Christina Rossetti (1830-1894). These short poems are in the public domain and copyright free. Feel free to use them in your nature journal and for anything else. THE SLEEP OF SPRING O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain-- When shall I know that sleep again? When shall I be as I have been Upon my mother's breast Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green To woo to perfect rest-- Love in the meadow, field, and glen, And in my native wilds again? The sheep within the fallow field, The herd upon the green, The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn to e'en-- O for the pasture, fields, and fen! When shall I see such rest again? I love the weeds along the fen, More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours. Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free. The crows upon the swelling hills, The cows upon the lea, Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, Are ever dear to me, Because sweet freedom is their mate, While I am lone and desolate. I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me; I loved the song which Nature sung, Endearing liberty; I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, For there my boyhood used to dream. There even toil itself was play; Twas pleasure een to weep; Twas joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep. When shall I see the wood and plain, And dream those happy dreams again? John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet EARLY SPRING The Spring is come, and Spring flowers coming too, The crocus, patty kay, the rich hearts'ease; The polyanthus peeps with blebs of dew, And daisy flowers; the buds swell on thetrees; While oer the odd flowers swimgrandfather bees In the old homestead rests the cottage cow; The dogs sit on their haunches near thepail, The least one to the stranger growls "bow wow," Then hurries to the door and cocks histail, To knaw the unfinished bone; the placid cow Looks oer the gate; the thresher'slumping flail Is all the noise the spring encounters now. John Clare (1793-1864), English Poet SPRING Frost-locked all the winter, Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, What shall make their sap ascend That they may put forth shoots? Tips of tender green, Leaf, or blade, or sheath; Telling of the hidden life That breaks forth underneath, Life nursed in its grave by Death. Blows the thaw-windpleasantly, Drips the soaking rain, By fits looks down the waking sun: Young grass springs on the plain; Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees; Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, Swollen with sap put forth their shoots; Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane; Birds sing and pair again. There is no time like Spring, When life's alive ineverything, Before new nestlings sing, Before cleft swallows speed their journey back Along the trackless track-- God guides their wing, He spreads their table that they nothing lack,-- Before the daisy grows a common flower, Before the sun has power To scorch the world up in his noontide hour. There is no time like Spring, Like Spring that passesby; There is no life like Spring-life born to die,-- Piercing the sod, Clothing the uncouth clod, Hatched in the nest, Fledged on the windy bough, Strong on the wing: There is no time like Spring that passes by, Now newly born, and now Hastening to die. Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English Poet THE FIRST SPRING DAY I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing; I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring. I wonder if the springtide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud andsing: Sing, hope, to me; Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory. The sap will surely quicken soon or late, The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, Or in this world, or in the world to come: Sing, voice of Spring, Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing. Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English Poet SPRING QUIET Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing; Where in the whitethorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush. Full of fresh scents Are the buddingboughs Arching high over A cool green house: Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: 'We spread no snare; 'Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossystone. 'Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be.' Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English Poet Return to Nature in Spring from Spring Poems
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