Penny's Top 20 / April 2021

  

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in April 2021:

  1.  Midnight Cry, R.K. Singh

  2.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  3.  Barley Feed, A.E. Reiff 

  4.  April Snow, Pearl Andelson Sherry

  5.  Easter Night, Alice Meynell
  6.  April: A pastoral poem, William Perfect
  7.  The Plow, Raymond Holden

  8.  A Psalm of Spring, William Force Stead
  9.  Love like an April day beguiles, James Bland Burges
10.  An Easter Canticle, Charles Hanson Towne 

11.  Spring, George J. Dance
12.  Skating, William Wordsworth
13.  Call Back Our Dead, F.G. Scott
14.  June Rain, Richard Aldington
15.  After Soufriere, Michael Field
16.  The World's Body, AE Reiff
17.  April Aubade, Sylvia Plath

18.  Crepuscule, E.E. Cummings
19.  Moonlight Alert, Yvor Winters

20. Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollet

Source: Blogger, "Stats" 

Shireen and the Bee / David Atwood Wasson

Shireen and the Bee

SHIREEN went out 'mid the blooms of May,
And gladdened the lea with a rarer bloom:
On a breathing bank of flowers she lay,
And sweetened the breath of their perfume,
Gave balm to the breath of their perfume.

She sang from her heart; and the bird on the bough
Pouring paradise out of a quivering throat,
Grew silent to hear her; and ah! now, now,
No more he delights in his own glad note,
No longer he pipeth his own pure note.

On her bed of bloom she closed then her eyes,
And gave herself up to the peace of her breast;
And sleep stole down from a watch in the skies,
To win a new charm from her virgin rest,
To gather new balm from her angel rest.

A bee was flying the honey to sip
From maiden bosoms of roses Dew-blown;
But their bosoms he left, and flew to her lip
And would feed all summer on that alone,
Would fill up his hive from that alone.

But, ah! too deep the delight of the bee,
And soon he wanteth all will to fly:
" Oh! there s no summer but here," quoth he,
"And here, only here, will I live and die –
It were life upon such a couch to die,"

She woke, and him from his trance of bliss
Swept lightly away with ivory hand;
But now for the bee no honey but this!
No roses are sweet in all the land,
One sweet, and but one, in all the land.

Where violets cluster, languid his wing:
Where apple-trees blossom, vacant his eye;
He can find in his flight no winsome thing:
"My summer is over," he saith with a sigh;
" My summers are o'er, I can only die."

~~
David Atwood Wasson (1823-1887)
from Poems, 1888

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

David Atwood Wasson biography

May Morning / Wilfred Rowland Childe

May Morning

Beneath the gray advance of day
In dreams the builded City lay:
Veiled all her spires and palaces,
And veiled the splendour of her towers,
The dew upon her starry flowers,
Her dim and many-coloured leas,
And veiled the coming of the Sun.

O magic-minded Middle Age!
Most strange it was to do a thing,
Whence comes there not to any one
The increase of his heritage,
Nor riches for his strengthening,
To mount upon a tower and sing,
And with a chaunted mystery
Salute the dim and sovran East,
Uplifting music like a feast
Above the City loved of thee:
Yea, very wonderful it was,
O crowned with amber and chrysopras,
To meet the Dawn with litany.

~~
Wilfred Rowland Childe (1890-1952)
from The Little City, 1911

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Wilfred Rowland Childe biography

Come merry Spring delight us / Mary Wroth

Song 3

Come merry Spring delight us,
For Winter long did spight us,
In pleasure still persever,
Thy beauties ending never:
            Spring, and grow
            Lasting so,
With joyes increasing ever.

Let cold from hence be banish'd,
Till hopes from me be vanish'd,
But bless thy daynties growing
In fulnesse freely flowing:
            Sweet Birds sing
            For the Spring,
All mirth is now bestowing.

Philomel in this Arbour
Makes now her loving Harbour,
Yet of her state complaining,
Her Notes in mildnesse strayning,
            Which though sweet,
            Yet doe meet,
Her former lucklesse paining.

~~
Mary Wroth (1587-1633)
from Pamphilia to Amphilanthus, 1621

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Katayama Yokoku (1760-1801), Kiku Jido and Flowers and Birds. PD, Wikimedia Commons

Mary Wroth biography

A Day in Spring / Richard Westall (XIV)

A Day in Spring

XIV

Through the garden now we'll range;
View its sweets and mark their change;
Beauteous fav'rites of a day!
Oh! how sweet the breath of May!
Oh! how rich her form appears,
Bounteous smiling thro' her tears,
As the day-star riding high,
Clears the lately clouded sky!
— Never let my banks be free,
From the flaunting piony;
Or the flower that bears the name
Of the never dying flame;
Or the tulip's pencil'd bell,
Or the pink, with spicy smell:
While beside them lovely grows
Flora's pride, the mossy rose,
And the lily's breast of snow
Blends the heaven-tinctur'd glow:
Let the hollyhock be nigh,
Deeply steep'd in purple dye;
I delight to see him drest
In his dark imperial vest,
Branching wide, and waving loose,
Drunk he seems with Tyrian juice.

~~

Read the rest of the poem here

Richard Westall (1765-1836)

from A Day in Spring, and other poems, 1808

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Richard Westell biography

May: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

May: A pastoral poem

Approaches the mother of love,
The month of unsullied delight;
Her hand is adorn'd with a dove,
Her head is emblossom'd with white.
With colours that glow on the view
The pencil of Flora behold,
Her garment of sky-brighten'd blue
Has studded with silver and gold.

The novel of nature we read,
How pleasing her prospects expand,
Thro' woodland, inclosure, and mead,
New beauties emerge from the land.
The carols of spring from the grove
Re-echo melodious notes,
'Tis the innocent music of love,
On the bosom of aether that floats.

Come, Pales, if pastoral lay
Your fancy to transport has led;
Panegyrics I sing on the May,
Assist me the portrait to spread.
And Pan with thy musical reed,
Sylvanus, thy neighbour, invite;
The muse in her progress to spread,
Protect her unpolish'd delight.

'Tis Pales herself on the plain,
Her robe of the dew-freshen'd green;
She can't be averse to my strain,
So mild and compos'd is her mien.
Ye shepherds, your fleece-coated charge,
Her mandate permits to release,
Young bleaters go ramble at large,
Unfolded, go wander in peace.

The maple and plane-tree in bloom
Emblazon each sylvan retreat;
And Flora purloin from thy loom
To canopy over each seat.
By the side of the park in the vale
The hawthorn, young minion of May,
Her bosom unfolds to the gale
In blossoms exub'rant and gay.

The pink, many varied of vest,
The yellow and white asphodel,
And tulip, in pageantry dress'd,
Are emulous each to excel.
The rose, royal empress of sweets,
In the path of the fashion'd parterre,
The suckle and jessamine greets,
Sweet blossom her reign to revere.

Deep sunk in the lap of the dale,
Of Elegance simple the queen,
To lavish her sweets on the gale,
The lilly dawn-bosom'd is seen.
The orchis and fox-glove appear,
The hare-bell's alive in the shade,
Purple goddess that paints the young year,
Thy pallet each landscape is made.

Come, Delia, dear Hebe of youth,
O come, with thy dark azure eye;
How sweet to my heart is thy truth!
To the arms of thy Corydon fly.
See May, from yon rose-shedding cloud,
Restoress of pleasure descends;
The zephys await on the crowd
Of Sports which her levee attends.

Of Sol, the bright daughter, each hour
As devious we wander along,
Shall smile like a beam on the shower,
And Philomel heighten her song.
With innocence fix'd for our guide,
Thou sweeter by far than the May,
Tranquility close by our side,
Let Flora her rival survey.

The prais'd renovation enjoy,
My fair, with serenity bless'd,
And let not one trouble annoy
The halcyon May of thy breast.
May pleasure that's virtuous and pure,
Your heart true felicity bring,
Thro' a series of time to insure
In your mind a perpetual spring.

What month in the mutable year
For honours with May can compare?
The virtues of nature appear
Mild, innocent, noble and fair.
For see, 'mid the gay-purpled scenes,
Which scatter their fragrance on May,
They reign with the greatest of queens,
Of birth, whose imperial day

Returns, and loud Paeans arise,
The shouts of Britannia's acclaim,
Universally mount to the skies,
So great and deserv'd is her fame.
Bright pattern of conjugal love,
The blessings of truth are thy own,
The graces, new-born from above,
Are gems which embellish thy throne.

To soften the pillow of state,
Forbid the approach of a frown,
Dispel all the cares which await
On the pomp that encircles a crown.
O spare her, ye years, as you glide,
My muse of warm loyalty sings:
May Charlotte, of Albion the pride,
Long reign with the happiest of kings.

'Tis nature's spontaneous smile,
With gladness the earth is elate,
One carpet of velvet the soil
Has spread in superlative state.
The plume-painted minstrels of song
Commingle their generous lays
In notes which to raptures prolong
The season's creator they praise.

Shall man be deficient in grace?
Let gratitude banish the thought!
The hand of divinity trace
In May with munificence fraught.
The muse, admiration's thy friend,
Shall join in the mental repast,
The knee of thanksgiving to bend,
For mercies both present and past.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, May 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Perfect biography

For You, Mother / Hilda Conkling

For You, Mother

I have a dream for you, Mother,
Like a soft thick fringe to hide your eyes.
I have a surprise for you, Mother,
Shaped like a strange butterfly.
I have found a way of thinking
To make you happy;
I have made a song and a poem
All twisted into one.
If I sing, you listen;
If I think, you know.
I have a secret from everybody in the world full of people
But I cannot always remember how it goes;
It is a song
For you, Mother,
With a curl of cloud and a feather of blue
And a mist
Blowing along the sky.
If I sing it some day, under my voice,
Will it make you happy?

~~
Hilda Conkling (1910-1986)
from Poems by a Little Girl, 1920

[Poem is in the public domain in the United States]

Hilda Conkling biography

In May / Madison Cawein

 

In May

When you and I in the hills went Maying,
     You and I in the bright May weather,
     The birds, that sang on the boughs together,
There in the green of the woods, kept saying
     All that my heart was saying low,
     ‘I love you! love you!’ soft and low,
          And did you know?
When you and I in the hills went Maying.

There where the brook on its rocks went winking,
     There by its banks where the May had led us,
     Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows,
Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking
     All that my soul was thinking there,
     ‘I love you! love you!’ softly there
          And did you care?
There where the brook on its rocks went winking.

Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling,
     Should our paths unite or our pathways sever,
     In the Mays to come I shall feel forever
The wildflowers thinking, the wild birds telling,
     In words as soft as the falling dew,
     The love that I keep here still for you,
          Both deep and true,
Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling.

~~
Madison Cawein (1865-1914)
from Myth and Romance, 1899

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Madison Cawein biography

Lo, the winter is past / Song of Solomon

from The Song of Solomon

II

I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.
As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.
His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.

The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.
My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.
Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.
My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

~~
from the King James Bible, 1611

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Winter is Past / Hamilton Aide

Winter is Past

Winter is past, Love; again the stream flows:
We two are met who have sorrowed apart;
For each thorn of winter, we'll pluck a spring-rose,
Life of my life, my Love, Heart of my heart!

Spring-time rejoicing, the little birds burn
Crimson with love in the arms of the woods;
Night hath been long, but now day will return,
Wealth of my wealth, my Love, Best of my Goods!

Birds sing already, as though it were June,
Sorrow and snows are both melted away:
Lift up thy voice let us sing the same tune,
Life of my life, my Love, Queen of my May!

~~
Hamilton Aide (1827-1906)
from Songs without Music, 1882

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Hamilton Aide biography