Itylus
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (born in April, I might add)
Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?
A thousand summers are over and dead.
What hast thou found in the spring to follow?
What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?
What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?
O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,
The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?
Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the south;
But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire,
Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and sweet small mouth
Feed the heart of the night with fire.
I the nightingale all spring through,
O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,
All spring through till the spring be done,
Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,
Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,
Take flight and follow and find the sun.
Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow,
Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber,
How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?
For where thou fliest I shall not follow,
Till life forget and death remember,
Till thou remember and I forget.
Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,
I know not how thou hast heart to sing.
Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?
Thy lord the summer is good to follow,
And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:
But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?
O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,
My heart in me is a molten ember
And over my head the waves have met.
But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow
Could I forget or thou remember,
Couldst thou remember and I forget.
O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,
The heart's division divideth us.
Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus,
The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.
O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,
I pray thee sing not a little space.
Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?
The woven web that was plain to follow,
The small slain body, the flower-like face,
Can I remember if thou forget?
O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!
The hands that cling and the feet that follow,
The voice of the child's blood crying yet
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.
Wonderful poems of April and Spring. Please keep them coming, I wish I had another to offer, but haven't found one for a while. (I keep looking!)
ALWAYS MARRY AN APRIL GIRL
Ogden Nash
Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered langour,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true--
I love April, I love you.
Note: Wife was born in May, but the sentiment of the poem still applies to me
Cav -- that one is super. I have sisters born in April... must make copies for them!
TO SPRING
William Blake
O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest down
Thro' the clear windows of the morning; turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the list'ning
Vallies hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavillions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
(I swear I heard someone in Toronto chanting this yesterday :wink: )
If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring?
Pilgrims!
April
A prophesy of good so fair, tingeing all the sweet spring air
With future joys of perfume rare is April.
Like a charming dainty girl, with her curls in a whirl,
Rose leaf skin and teeth of pearl is April.
Sometimes sad and sometimes gay, tears and smiles all in one day.
Just before the flowers of May comes April.
__Mae C. Patrick
You've been so good to find April poems. I've searched and found this... assuming you believe, as I do, that a wren nests in April.
Short Story
In a fine country, in a sunny country,
Among the hills I knew,
I built a house for the wren that lives in the orchard,
And a house for you.
The house I built for the wren had a round entrance,
Neat and very small;
But the house I built for you had a great doorway,
For a lady proud and tall.
You came from a country where the shrubby sweet lavender
Lives the mild winter through;
The lavender died each winter in the garden
Of the house I built for you.
You were troubled and came to me because the farmer
Called the autumn "the fall";
You thought that a country where the lavender died in the winter
Was not a country at all.
The wrens return each year to the house in the orchard;
They have lived, they have seen the world, the know what's best
For a wren and his wife; in the handsome house I gave them
They built their twiggy nest.
But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home
To a leaky castle across the sea, --
To lie awake in linen smelling of lavender,
And hear the nightingale and long for me.
ESVM from Huntsman, What Quarry?
Oh Piffka I really like that one!
Thanks, Jjorge, its rhythm leaves a little to be desired, but I love the story.
This was the poem that introduced A Short Story...
The Princess Recalls Her One Adventure
Hard is my pillow
Of down from the duck's breast,
Harsh the linen cover;
I cannot rest.
Fall down, my tears,
Upon the fine hem,
Upon the lonely letters
Of my long name;
Drown the sigh of them.
We stood by the lake
And we neither kissed nor spoke;
We heard how the small waves
Lurched and broke,
And chuckled in the rock.
We spoke and turned away.
We never kissed at all.
Fall down, my tears.
I wish that you might fall
On the road by the lake,
Where my cob went lame,
And I stood with the groom
Till the carriage came.
EStVM
April Rain Song
by Langston Hughes
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night-
And I love the rain.
ed. note: However, we hope it doesn't rain today.
ooooh, that reminds me of a song my mother used to sing...
<ahem>
Oh, I feel so gay, in a melancholy way
That it might as well
It might as well
Be Spring!
Piffka
I remember that song!
I went to google to get the whole thing:
It Might As Well Be Spring
Lyrics by: Oscar Hammerstein II (O. Greeley Clendenning H. II)
Music by: Richard Rodgers
From the Film: State Fair 1945 (M)
I'm as restless as a willow in a windstorm, I'm as jumpy as puppet on a string
I'd say that I had spring fever, but I know it 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 even spring
I keep wishing I were someone else, walking down a strange new street
And hearing words that I've never heard from a girl I've yet to meet
I'm as busy as spider spinning daydreams, spinning spinning daydreams
I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing
I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud, or a robin on the wing
But I feel so gay in a melancholy way, that it might as well be spring
It might as well be spring.
Wow! Who would have thought it! She never sang the rest of the song, only the end!
Thanks, Jjorge!!!!!
Got any more April poems?? This is it... Tomorrow is May Day!
AN APRIL DAY
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 plain.
I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's 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 woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.
When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, 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 blue 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 gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April! many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.
Henry W. Longfellow
Piffka
I did a quick search to find one more April poem, and at 11:59 pm by my computers clock I posted it (above).
I didn't have time to check the thread to be certain that it hadn't already been posted. then after posting it I noticed that A2K listed it as being posted at 11:01 pm.
Whatsamatta is A2K still on standard time?
can you please explain me the poem lovliest of trees.
bree wrote:Raggedy, I'm so glad you're enjoying the Spires and Pastan books -- and what an appropriate poem for this thread you found in the Pastan!
Here in NYC, things aren't looking very spring-like at the moment, what with the three or four inches of snow that fell today. All those lovely daffodils that bloomed last week, and that I was admiring just yesterday, as I took my Sunday afternoon walk in Riverside Park, are now weighed down by a blanket of heavy, wet snow. Oh, well -- at least we know they'll be back next year, just like the cherry trees that A. E. Housman wrote about in this poem (which may not contain the word "April", but which is one of my favorite spring poems anyway):
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
Hi mondi,
Welcome to A2K.
I haven't visited this thread since last year but I'm glad your post brought it back to my attention.
Here's a poem that isn't really about April -it is more about loss than about the seasons- but I find it to be very moving.
Hope you like it.
The last line hits me like a baseball bat between the eyes:
"Spring in the Garden"
Ah, cannot the curled shoots of the larkspur that you loved so,
Cannot the spiny poppy that no winter kills
Instruct you how to return through the thawing
ground and the thin snow
Into this April sun that is driving the mist between the hills?
A good friend to the monkshood in a time of need
You were, and the lupine's friend as well;
But I see the lupine lift the ground like a tough weed
And the earth over the monkshood swell,
And I fear that not a root in all this heaving sea
Of land, has nudged you where you lie, has found
Patience and time to direct you, numb and stupid as
you still must be
From your first winter underground.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)
:wink: 