I'm as Giddy as a Baby on a Swing
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���������� ������������� � �����. Poems near spring.�
Allan Cunningham
The Spring of the Yr
Gone were but the wintertime common cold,�
And gone were only the snow,�
I could slumber in the wild woods�
Where primroses accident.�
Cold 's the snow at my head,�
And cold at my feet;�
And the finger of death 's at my e'en,�
Closing them to slumber.�
Allow none tell my father�
Or my mother so honey,—�
I'll meet them both in sky�
At the jump of the year.
***
The March wind roars
Similar a lion in the sky,
And makes us shiver
As he passes by.�
When winds are soft,
And the days are warm and clear,
Just like a gentle lamb,
Then leap is hither.
***
AN APRIL Twenty-four hour period
When the warm sun, that brings�
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,�
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs�
The first flower of the obviously.�
I love the flavour well,�
When wood glades are teeming with bright forms,�
Nor night and many-folded clouds foretell�
The coming-on of storms.�
From the earth'southward loosened mould�
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;�
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,�
The drooping tree revives.�
The softly-warbled song�
Comes from the pleasant wood, and colored wings�
Glance quick in the bright sunday, that moves along�
The forest openings.�
When the brilliant dusk fills�
The silverish woods with lite, the green slope throws�
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,�
And wide the upland glows.�
And when the eve is born,�
In the blueish lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,�
Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,�
And twinkles many a star.�
Inverted in the tide�
Stand the greyness rocks, and trembling shadows throw,�
And the fair copse look over, next,�
And see themselves below.�
Sweetness Apr! many a thought�
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;�
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,�
Life's aureate fruit is shed.�
Henry Westward. Longfellow
***
Apr In Paris
I never knew the charm of spring�
I never met it confront to face�
I never knew my heart could sing�
I never missed a warm embrace�
Till April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom�
Holiday tables nether the trees�
Apr in Paris, this is a feeling�
That no i can ever reprise�
I never knew the charm of bound�
I never met it face to face�
I never knew my heart could sing�
I never missed a warm embrace�
Till April in Paris�
Whom tin can I run to�
What have you done to my heart?
***
Dark-green Things Growing
O the green things growing, the dark-green things growing,
The faint sweet odor of the green things growing!
I should like to alive, whether I smile or grieve,
Only to watch the happy life of my green things growing.�
O the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!
How they talk each to each, when none of united states of america are knowing;
In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight
Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are exultation.�
I love, I love them and then-my green things growing!
And I call up that they love me, without false showing;
For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,
With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.�
And in the rich shop of their blossoms glowing
Ten for one I take they're on me bestowing:
Oh, I should like to run into, if God'southward will it may exist,
Many, many a summer of my light-green things growing!�
Merely if I must be gathered for the angel'south sowing,
Sleep out of sight awhile, similar the green things growing,
Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn,
If I may change into green things growing.�
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
***
It Might As Well Be Leap
I'k as restless as a willow in a windstorm, I'thousand equally jumpy as puppet on a cord�
I'd say that I had spring fever, just I know information technology isn't spring�
I am starry eyed and vaguely discontented, like a nightingale without a song to sing�
O why should I have spring fever, when it isn't fifty-fifty spring�
I keep wishing I were someone else, walking downward a strange new street�
And hearing words that I've never heard from a girl I've all the same to run across�
I'm as busy as spider spinning daydreams, spinning spinning daydreams�
I'g as giddy as a babe on a swing�
I oasis't seen a crocus or a rosebud, or a robin on the wing�
But I feel and so gay in a melancholy way, that information technology might as well be leap�
It might as well be jump.
***
Bound
Now fades the last long streak of snow,
Now burgeons every maze of quick
Most the flowering squares, and thick
By cadaverous roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drown'd in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now trip the light fantastic the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale,
And milkier every milky sail,
On winding stream of distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood, that live their lives.
From country to land; and in my chest
Spring wakens as well; and my regret
Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the remainder.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
***
Leap Cleaning
March bustles in on windy anxiety
And sweeps my doorstep and my street.
She washes and cleans with pounding rains,
Scrubbing the earth of wintertime stains.
She shakes the grime from carpet green
Till naught but fresh new blades are seen.
Then, house in order, all corking as a pin,
She ushers gentle springtime in.
***
Springtime
in springtime the violets
grow in the sidewalk cracks
and the ants play furiously
at my gum-shoed toes
carrying off a half-eaten peanut
butter sandwich i had at lunch
and sometimes i crumble
my extra graham crackers
and on the rainy days; take off
my xanthous infinite hat and splash
all the puddles on the street and not one
common cold can catch me.
***
TO SPRING
O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest downwardly�
Thro' the clear windows of the forenoon; turn�
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,�
Which in full choir hails thy arroyo, O Bound!�
The hills tell each other, and the listing'ning�
Vallies hear; all our longing eyes are turned�
Upwardly to thy bright pavillions: effect forth,�
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.�
Come o'er the eastern hills, and permit our winds�
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us gustatory modality�
Thy forenoon and evening jiff; besprinkle thy pearls�
Upon our dearest-sick land that mourns for thee.�
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; cascade�
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put�
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,�
Whose modest tresses were jump up for thee!�
William Blake
12 ������� 2010
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