Tag Archive | spring



By Ebenezer Elliott


Again the violet of our early days

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,

And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;

The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,

Talk of tomorrow’s cowslips, as they run.

Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom!

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!

Wake, buried lily!  spirit, quit thy tomb!

And thou shade-loving hyacinth, be born!

Then, haste, sweet rose!  sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,

Whose dewdrops shall illume with pearly light

Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands

From sea to sea, while daisies infinite

Uplift in praise their little glowing hands,

O’er every hill that under heaven expands.

Easter is…

Excerpt from the book – Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, and a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year

By Richelle E. Goodrich

Easter is…
Joining in a birdsong,
Eying an early sunrise,
Smelling yellow daffodils,
Unbolting windows and doors,
Skipping through meadows,
Cuddling newborns,
Hoping, believing,
Reviving spent life,
Inhaling fresh air,
Sprinkling seeds along furrows,
Tracking in the mud.
Easter is the soul’s first taste of spring.

Lines Written In Early Spring


By William Wordsworth


I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

Tokens of Spring


By Horace G. Grover

Now breaks the year into its rosy dawn;
And, like pale fugitives in long retreat,
The last of Winter’s cloudy host withdrawn
Stream northward through the blue.  The Spring’s young feet
Are deep in primroses; by orchard walls
Drip the white petals from the laden bough;
And, from some burgeoning spray, the throstle calls,
Where tall elms edge the kingdom of the plough,
Full-throated; dainty blossoms star the pool,
And new life teems beneath the tangled weeds.
Day breaks with opal mists, and moist and cool
Her breathings on the world; the river reeds
Advance their supple spears, and fairy gold
Shines in the meadows where the children play.
The great oaks bud, the furze upon the wold
Flames gloriously, and storm-clouds drift away.



By C.B. Langston

Spring’s green bud is bursting fast,
And winter’s reign is o’er at last,
And summer’s sun
Has now begun
His genial beams o’er earth to cast.

A magic wand in hand unseen,
Decks nature in her robes of green;
And liquid notes
From songster’s throats
With music hail the brightened scene.

Rubies and pearls bedeck the morn;
And golden vestments eve adorn;
And life abounds,
And joy resounds,
Where melancholy stalked forlorn.

The flowing rivers, winds and showers,
The sparkling rills, the radiant flowers,
Leap and rejoice
With sudden voice,
Eager to test their new-born powers.

The choral anthem–incense sweet!
With swelling melody replete,
Fills ev’ry gale
With grateful hail,
The gentle influence to greet.

“Glory to the matchless sprite!
Glory to effulgent Light!”
Aroused from sleep,
The land and deep
Unceasing chorus day and night!

Should I then omit to bring
My choicest gifts to welcome spring?
Join in the choir
With heart and lyre,
And loudest in the concert sing?

Daffodil Gold


By Clinton Scollard

Gold of the daffodil, drawn
Out of the cup of the dawn,
Gold of the daffodil, born
In the bright mines of the morn,
Gold of the daffodil, spun
On the warm loom of the sun,
Flood through my spirit, and smite
Me with thine orient light!
I that am pallid and poor,
Wasted by winter away,
Be thou my succor and cure!
Quicken my questioning clay!
That I may rouse me and sing,
Touch thou my pulses with spring!

Trees by Philip Larkin

By Philip Larkin

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greeness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullest thickets every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

trees in spring2

Image from journeyoflight.com