#WingedWordsWindsday: 2023/03/29 -- Springing into April: National Poetry Month

 WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 2, No. 22: March 29, 2023

 

 

Springing into April: National Poetry Month!

https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/

 

“Budding-Time Too Brief”

By Evaleen Stein (1863-1923)

 

O little buds, break not so fast!

  The spring’s but new.

  The skies will yet be brighter blue,

  And sunny too.

I would you might thus sweetly last       

Till this glad season’s overpast,

  Nor hasten through.

 

It is so exquisite to feel

  The light warm Sun;

  To merely know the winter done,       

  And life begun;

And to my heart no blooms appeal

For tenderness so deep and real,

  As any one

 

Of these first April buds, that hold       

  The hint of spring’s

  Rare perfectness that May-time brings.

  So take not wings!

Oh, linger, linger, nor unfold

Too swiftly through the mellow mould,       

  Sweet growing things!

 

And errant birds, and honey-bees,

  Seek not to wile;

  And, Sun, let not your warmest smile

  Quite yet beguile     

The young peach-boughs and apple-trees

To trust their beauty to the breeze;

  Wait yet awhile!

 

“Up, Little Ones!”

By Evaleen Stein (1863-1923)

 

A robin redbreast, fluting there

Upon the apple-bough,

Is telling all the world how fair

Are apple-blossoms now;

The honey-dew its sweetness spills

From cuckoo-cups, and all

The crocuses and daffodils

Are dressed for festival!

 

Such pretty things are to be seen,

Such pleasant things to do,

The April Earth it is so green,

The April sky so blue,

The path from dawn to even-song

So joyous is to-day,

Up, little ones! And dance along

The lilac-scented way!

 

Woodblock print of Mount Fuji and a Sakura (cherry blossom) tree from Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji by Hiroshige (1797-1858). The Sakura trees usually bloom in April at Japan House (https://japanhouse.illinois.edu). (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

“A Calendar of Sonnets: April”

By Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)

 

No days such honored days as these! While yet

Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide

For some fair thing which should forever bide

On earth, her beauteous memory to set

In fitting frame that no age could forget,

Her name in lovely April's name did hide,

And leave it there, eternally allied

To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.

And when fair Aphrodite passed from earth,

Her shrines forgotten and her feasts of mirth,

A holier symbol still in seal and sign,

Sweet April took, of kingdom most divine,

When Christ ascended, in the time of birth

Of spring anemones, in Palestine.

 

“The Four Seasons of the Year: Spring”

By Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

 

Another four I've left yet to bring on,

Of four times four the last Quaternion,

The Winter, Summer, Autumn & the Spring,

In season all these Seasons I shall bring:

Sweet Spring like man in his Minority,

At present claimed, and had priority.

With smiling face and garments somewhat green,

She trimmed her locks, which late had frosted been,

Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath,

Fit to revive, the numbed earth from death.

Three months (quoth she) are 'lotted to my share

March, April, May of all the rest most fair.

Tenth of the first, Sol into Aries enters,

And bids defiance to all tedious winters,

Crosseth the Line, and equals night and day,

(Still adds to the last till after pleasant May)

And now makes glad the darkened northern wights

Who for some months have seen but starry lights.

Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toil,

He might unloose his winter locked soil:

The Seeds-man too, doth lavish out his grain,

In hope the more he casts, the more to gain:

The Gardener now superfluous branches lops,

And poles erects for his young clambering hops.

Now digs then sows his herbs, his flowers & roots

And carefully manures his trees of fruits.

The Pleiades their influence now give,

And all that seemed as dead afresh doth live.

The croaking frogs, whom nipping winter killed

Like birds now chirp, and hop about the field,

The Nightingale, the black-bird and the Thrush

Now tune their lays, on sprays of every bush.

The wanton frisking Kid, and soft-fleeced Lambs

Do jump and play before their feeding Dams,

The tender tops of budding grass they crop,

They joy in what they have, but more in hope:

For though the frost hath lost his binding power,

Yet many a fleece of snow and stormy shower

Doth darken Sol's bright eye, makes us remember

The pinching North-west wind of cold December.

My second month is April, green and fair,

Of longer days, and a more temperate Air:

The Sun in Taurus keeps his residence,

And with his warmer beams glanceth from thence

This is the month whose fruitful showers produces

All set and sown for all delights and uses:

The Pear, the Plum, and Apple-tree now flourish

The grass grows long the hungry beast to nourish.

The Primrose pale, and azure violet

Among the verdurous grass hath nature set,

That when the Sun on his Love (the earth) doth shine

These might as lace set out her garment fine.

The fearful bird his little house now builds

In trees and walls, in Cities and in fields.

The outside strong, the inside warm and neat;

A natural Artificer complete.

The clocking hen her chirping chickens leads

With wings & beak defends them from the gleads

My next and last is fruitful pleasant May,

Wherein the earth is clad in rich array,

The Sun now enters loving Gemini,

And heats us with the glances of his eye,

Our thicker raiment makes us lay aside

Lest by his fervor we be torrefied.

All flowers the Sun now with his beams discloses,

Except the double pinks and matchless Roses.

Now swarms the busy, witty, honey-Bee,

Whose praise deserves a page from more than me

The cleanly Housewife’s Dairy's now in the prime,

Her shelves and firkins filled for wintertime.

The meads with Cowslips, Honey-suckles dight,

One hangs his head, the other stands upright:

But both rejoice at the heaven’s clear smiling face,

More at her showers, which water them a space.

For fruits, my Season yields the early Cherry,

The hasty Peas, and wholesome cool Strawberry.

More solid fruits require a longer time,

Each Season hath his fruit, so hath each Clime:

Each man his own peculiar excellence,

But none in all that hath preeminence.

Sweet fragrant Spring, with thy short pittance fly

Let some describe thee better then can I.

Yet above all this privilege is thine,

Thy days still lengthen without least decline: