C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Spring
By Henry Timrod (18281867)
S
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.
The blood is all aglee,
And there’s a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season’s dawn.
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature’s scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.
That not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.
Appear some azure gems,
Small as might deck, upon a gala day,
The forehead of a fay.
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop’s tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose’s mouth.
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
If from a beech’s heart,
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
“Behold me! I am May!”
With such a blessed time!
Who in the west wind’s aromatic breath
Could hear the call of Death!
The voice of wood and brake,
Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms,
A million men to arms.
Than all her sunlit rains,
And every gladdening influence around,
Can summon from the ground.
Methinks that I behold,
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,
Spring kneeling on the sod,
Upon the ancient hills
To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves
Who turn her meads to graves.