SpRiNg sPrInG

These are some beautiful poems I found about spring! Read them, there pretty great!


Spring, Almost
The sunshine gleams so bright and warm,
The sky is blue and clear.
I run outdoors without a coat,
And spring is almost here.

Then before I know it,
Small clouds have blown together,
Till the sun just can't get through them,
And again, it's mitten weather.


A Prayer in Spring
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

Robert Frost

April
At morn when light mine eyes unsealed
I gazed upon the open field;
The rain had fallen in the night --
The landscape in the new day's light
A countenance of grace revealed
Upon the meadow, wood and height.

The sun's light was a smile of gold,
Ere shut by sudden fold on fold
Of surging, showering clouds from view;
No sooner hid than it broke through
A tearful smile upon the world
Where earth reflected heaven's blue.

Each separate divided part
Of day, was as the threefold art
Of God, who dreamed three dreams and made
The morning, noon, and night parade
In ever changing guise athwart
The day's hours, in His dreams arrayed.

The sky was as a canvas spun
To paint the new spring's nocturnes on;
A blended melody of tints --
The sea's hue, and the myriad hints
Of garden-closes, when the sun
Hath stamped the work of nature's mints.

William Stanley Braithwaite

Spring
MY heart to thy heart,
My hand to thine;
My lip to thy lips,
Kisses are wine
Brewed for the lover in sunshine and shade;
Let me drink deep, then, my African maid.

Lily to lily,
Rose unto rose;
My love to thy love
Tenderly grows.
Rend not the oak and the ivy in twain,
Nor the swart maid from her swarthier swain.
Paul Laurence Dunbar