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And the brown bright nightingale amorous
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a clamor of waters, and with might;
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling?
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
The Mænad and the Bassarid;
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909)
AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues;
All freshly steeped in morning dews.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
And everything is blest but I.
The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorland whistles shrill;
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, .
And raging bend the naked tree;
Robert Burns (1759-1796]
O Thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
The hills tell one another, and the listening
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
William Blake (1757-1827]
An Ode on the Spring
AN ODE ON THE SPRING
Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
And wake the purple year!
The untaught harmony of spring:
Their gathered fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
O'er-canopies the glade,
(At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:
The busy murmur glows!
And float amid the liquid noon;
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
In Fortune's varying colors dressed:
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
A solitary fly!
No painted plumage to display;
Thomas Gray (1716-1771)
SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
In the deep heart of every forest tree
Yet still on every side we trace the hand