The Poetry of Spring
Photo by Bart.
Oberon and Titania must be arguing again, and "thorough this distemperature, we see the seasons alter." Global warming might at times make it seem that it is not spring yet, but I felt like celebrating Spring after seeing Bart's beautiful spring photographs on his blog. Here are some of my favorite snippets of spring poetry. You can follow the links to the full-length versions.
Whan that Aprille with his showres sote
The droght of Marche had perced to the rote...
And smale fowles maken melodye....
—Chaucer, General Prologue, Canterbury Tales
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
—Thomas Nashe, Spring.
May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers;
But rather April, wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.
—Robert Southwell, Love's Servile Lot.
How could it be so fair, and you away?
How could the Trees be beauteous, Flowers so gay?...
When e'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to Me.
—Abraham Cowley, Spring.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
—T. S. Eliot, Waste Land.