It is cold.
Should I be bold
And go outside?
Or like a tortoise, hibernate?
I can not decide.
It is late
In the year.
A thought most drear
Does take
Hold .
Not all tortoises awake
From the cold.
I pray
For a spring day.
We dance in a ring
In spring
When the roses bloom
And little think on winter’s tomb.
We cavort
In the summer sun
With unstaid maid
And give but little thought
To how the deer does run
Towards the setting sun.
In autumn, when leaves fall
We recall
Life’s joys and gall
Ere winter makes a bed
For lover’s head.
College girls whirl,
unthurl.
Blossoms borne on a spring breeze
Tease
And please
Young men
Who, forgetting book and pen
Turn
And learn
Full well
What no dull
Text can tell.
I spent a pleasant Friday evening with my friend Brian. At one point during the evening Brian mentioned the below poem, “Faith in Spring”, by Johann Ludwig Uhland (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludwig_Uhland). I must confess to having no German, nor had I heard of the poet who’s poem is reproduced below:
Die linden Lüfte sind erwacht,
Sie säuseln und wehen Tag und Nacht,
Sie schaffen an allen Enden.
O frischer Duft, o neuer Klang!
Nun, armes Herze, sei nicht bang!
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.
Die Welt wird schöner mit jedem Tag,
Man weiß nicht, was noch werden mag,
Das Blühen will nicht enden.
Es blüht das fernste, tiefste Tal:
Nun, armes Herz, vergiß der Qual!
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.
Faith In Spring
The gentle winds are awakened,
They murmur and waft day and night,
They create in every corner.
Oh fresh scent, oh new sound!
Now, poor dear, fear not!
Now everything, everything must change.
The world becomes more beautiful with each day,
One does not know what may yet happen,
The blooming doesn’t want to end.
The farthest, deepest valley blooms:
Now, poor dear, forget the pain!
Now everything, everything must change.
“The daffodils are out in Saint James’s Park”
My colleague did remark.
Today
The wind blusters
Through Wordsworth’s spritely clusters,
And I wonder how long will the chancers stay.
As a small boy, I remember my grandfather telling me the below story, as to how the buds come to be sticky in springtime. I always assumed that he took the story from a collection of fairytales. However I have searched high and low and it would appear that he invented the tale to entertain me. However, if anyone does know the origin of the tale please do leave a comment. (I don’t remember the tale word for word so have used poetic license when retelling it).
—
In spring, a group of naughty gnomes (all unseen)
Did toadstools paint with glue
In order to catch the fairy queen.
‘Tis true
For my grandfather told me how the queen stuck fast
And, at last,
On her escape, she did say
To the gnomes “go your way
For I pardon your crime.
But, come springtime
You
Must paint the budds with your pots of glue.
Every year mind,
Or you shall find
That I am not so kind!”
So every year
Out of fear
Of what the fairy queen would do
Where they to forget,
The gnomes paint the budds with glue
(they are busy yet)!
Leaves swish, like water
As I walk through
Them to reach the park. ‘Tis true
Autumn is still here,
Yet, I fear that winter will give no quarter,
For each season does murder it’s daughter,
Who dies not but rather sleeps
And creeps
Forth to softly kill
Her father who will
Rise once more.
As it was before
So it will remain. The perpetual cycle
Of the seasons, a vital order does bring.
Spring
Follows winter stern.
Buds return
And soon,
Come summer, flowers will bloom.
Autumn imperceptibly doth replace
Summer’s flushed face,
While the Fall’s slow decay
Whispers “winter is on his way”.
In forests green
I have seen
The nymphs play.
Cometh May
They will around the pole
Dance.
By chance
Some kindred soul
Seeing a special one twirl
Will take a girl
Into his arms
For who can resist the charms
Of beauty fleeting
As the budding rose
Pressed to a young maiden’s nose.
There will be time enough for weeping
When the dance is over
And we are pushing up the clover
Birds sing.
The air on this spring
Evening carries scents unknown
As I stroll home
Alone.
That scent, is it hay?
All this will pass away.
Yet I am content to breathe this sweet air
And, for a time, forget my care.
Beauty with sadness lives
And gives
A melancholy delight
To me, as I walk home, on this spring night.
The soothing rain
Washes away pain.
My thought’s train
Quieted by the rain.
The wind blows
And my heart goes
High
Untoo the sky.
Would that I could travel with the breeze
And soar amongst the trees.
But I am to the ground tied
And must dwell amongst tears and sighs.
The fallen leaves are dead
Yet Overhead
Birds sing
Presaging spring.
K Morris - Poet 