Now Nature in her vernal green is clad,
And windy March puts on the robe of May;
The primrose is abroad, the buds half-way
Open their lips; all things are blithe and glad :
Then wherefore should I droop in semblance sad,
And contradict the promise of the air?
Ah, me! I can but think of those that were,
And now are not-of those dear friends I had,
And have not. Alice, thou art very meek,
And hast the faith that makes affliction good.
It would be wholesome to my perilous mood
If I could see the tear upon thy cheek.
Methinks we could talk out a day—a week,
Of those we loved. Oh, Alice! would we could.
WELCOME once more, my pretty Lady Spring:
a Spring we have not seen for years.
Even thy brief morning fit of girlish tears
Was bright and sweet as droppings from the wing Of kindly sylph, through ether voyaging
On some good errand to the distant spheres ;
bud and blade, to which adheres
The pure aspersion, seems a conscious thing,
Renew'd in spirit. Light the birdie leaps,
Shaking translucent gems from every spray;
And merrily down the many-shadow'd steeps
The streamlets whiten, all in new array.
Joy to the vale if Summer do but keep
The bounteous promise of this April day.
SWEET month of Venus, meekly thus begun,
Too pensive for a day of antique folly,
In yellow garb of quiet melancholy
Thy patient pastures sleep beside the sun;
And if a primrose peep, there is but one
Where wont the starry crowd to look so jolly.
Alone, amid the wood, the Christmas holly
Gleams on the bank with streaming rain fordone,
And yet the snowdrop and the daffodils
Have done their duty to the almanack.
And though the garden mould is blank and black,
With bloom and scent the gay mezereon fills
The longing sense; and plants of other climes
In the warm greenhouse tell of better times.
A LOVELY morn, so still, so very still,
It hardly seems a growing day of Spring,
Though all the odorous buds are blossoming,
And the small matin birds were glad and shrill
Some hours ago; but now the woodland rill
Murmurs along, the only vocal thing,
Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing,
And cons by fits and bits her evening trill.
Lovers might sit on such a morn as this
An hour together, looking at the sky,
Nor dare to break the silence with a kiss,
Long listening for the signal of a sigh ;
And the sweet Nun, diffused in voiceless prayer,
Feel her own soul through all the brooding air.
IN days of yore, while yet the world was young,
Fair nymphs arose to grace the morn of May,
And ere the East had doffed the pearly grey,
Went forth to catch the jewell'd drops that hung
On the fresh virgin leaves the woods among;
And many a delicate foot-mark might be seen,
Tinting the silvery lawn with darker green;
And many a bird, untimely waked, upsprung,
Scattering the maythorn's white. O lovely season,
Where art thou gone? Methinks the cold neglect
Of thy old rites, perchance may be the reason
Thou wilt not punctual keep thy wonted time,
But, angry at our slothful disrespect,
Carest not to quit some duteous happier clime.
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