The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
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Now spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim read more
Now spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health have flown.
For surely in the blind deep-buried roots
Of all men's souls to-day
A secret quiver shoots.
For surely in the blind deep-buried roots
Of all men's souls to-day
A secret quiver shoots.
For happiness one needs security, but joy can spring like a flower even from the cliffs of despair.
For happiness one needs security, but joy can spring like a flower even from the cliffs of despair.
They know who keep a broken tryst,
Till something from the Spring be missed
We have not read more
They know who keep a broken tryst,
Till something from the Spring be missed
We have not truly known the Spring.
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
read more
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
in Just--
spring when the world is mud--
luscious the little
lame balloonman
read more
in Just--
spring when the world is mud--
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
Daughter of heaven and earth, coy Spring,
With sudden passion languishing,
Teaching barren moors to smile,
read more
Daughter of heaven and earth, coy Spring,
With sudden passion languishing,
Teaching barren moors to smile,
Painting pictures mile on mile,
Holds a cup of cowslip wreaths
Whence a smokeless incense breathes.
The splendor of the rose and the whitness of the lily do not rob the little violet of it’s scent read more
The splendor of the rose and the whitness of the lily do not rob the little violet of it’s scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its lovliness.
Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
