Poems about Spring
Spring starts when nature throws away the shackles of winter. Tree saps resume their movement and small animal leave their burrows. But spring is not only in outer world. In the air there is a new disturbing component which makes us want.
And those desires have no certain object. Spring is time of renewal and changes for both nature and people.
Poets as artistic personalities are surely feel this state of changes ten times clearer. And most of them find a great inspiration in spring manifestations. So some those unusually distinct spring feelings represented in the form of rhymed word are gathered here for your pleasure.
Poetry about Spring
spring when the world is mud—
luscious the little
whistles far and wee
(E. E. Cummings)
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
O! how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day!
She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
"Winter is dead.”
April's air stirs in
Floats and balances
And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
It’s spring! Farewell
To chills and colds!
The blushing, girlish
Each flower, leaf
And blade of sod—
Small letters sent
To her from God.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing
Earth is dry to the center,
But spring, a new comer,
A spring rich and strange,
Shall make the winds blow
Round and round,
Thro' and thro' ,
Here and there,
Till the air
And the ground
Shall be fill'd with life anew.
In the green and gallant Spring,
Love and the lyre I thought to sing,
And kisses sweet to give and take
By the flowery hawthorn brake.
Now is russet Autumn here,
Death and the grave and winter drear,
And I must ponder here aloof
While the rain is on the roof.
(Robert Louis Stevenson)
The year’s at the spring
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven -
All’s right with the world!