SPRING

By Harry Timrod



Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air

Which dwells with all things fair--

Spring, with her golden sun and silver rain,

Is with us once again!



Out in the woods the jasmine burns

Its fragrant lamps, and turns

Into a royal court, with green festoons,

The banks of dark lagoons:

In the deep heart of every forest tree

The blood is all a-glee;

And there's a look about the leafless bowers

As if they dreamed of flowers.



Already, here and there, on frailest stems

Appear some azure gems,

Small as might deck, upon a gala day,

The forehead of a fay.

In gardens you may note amid the dearth,

The crocus breaking earth,

And, near the snowdrop's tender white and green,

The violet in its screen.



But many gleams and shadows needs must pass

Along the budding grass,

And weeks go by before the enamored South

Shall kiss the rose's mouth;

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn

In the sweet air of morn:

One almost to see the very street

Grow purple at his feet.



At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,

And brings, you know not why,

A feeling as when eager crowds await

Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start

If, from a beech's heart,

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,

"Behold me! I am May!"

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