May / Madison Cawein

May

CC BY-SA, Wikimedia Commons

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed,
That spangle the woods and dance —
No gleam of gold that the twilights hold
Is strong as their necromance:
For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead,
The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed
Are the May's own utterance.

The azure stars of the bluet bloom,
That sprinkle the woodland's trance —
No blink of blue that a cloud lets through
Is sweet as their countenance:
For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
Are the light of the May's own glance.

With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
In a sunbeam of a gown;
She needs but think and the blossoms wink,
But look, and they shower down.
By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,
With her wondering words and her looks she comes
Like a little maid to town.

~~

Madison Cawein (1865-1914)
from Kentucky Poems, 1903

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Madison Cawein biography

Ode in May / William Watson

Ode in May

Let me go forth, and share
The overflowing Sun
With one wise friend, or one
Better than wise, being fair,
Where the pewit wheels and dips
On heights of bracken and ling,
And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,
Tingles with the Spring.

What is so sweet and dear
As a prosperous morn in May,
The confident prime of the day,
And the dauntless youth of the year,
When nothing that asks for bliss,
Asking aright, is denied,
And half of the world a bridegroom is,
And half of the world a bride?

The Song of Mingling flows,
Grave, ceremonial, pure,
As once, from lips that endure,
The cosmic descant rose,
When the temporal lord of life,
Going his golden way,
Had taken a wondrous maid to wife
That long had said him nay.

For of old the Sun, our sire,
Came wooing the mother of men,
Earth, that was virginal then,
Vestal fire to his fire.
Silent her bosom and coy,
But the strong god sued and press'd;
And born of their starry nuptial joy
Are all that drink of her breast.

And the triumph of him that begot,
And the travail of her that bore,
Behold they are evermore
As warp and weft in our lot.
We are children of splendour and flame,
Of shuddering, also, and tears.
Magnificent out of the dust we came,
And abject from the Spheres.

O bright irresistible lord!
We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one,
And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,
Whence first was the seed outpour'd.
To thee as our Father we bow,
Forbidden thy Father to see,
Who is older and greater than thou, as thou
Art greater and older than we.

Thou art but as a word of his speech;
Thou art but as a wave of his hand;
Thou art brief as a glitter of sand
'Twixt tide and tide on his beach;
Thou art less than a spark of his fire,
Or a moment's mood of his soul:
Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir
That chant the chant of the Whole.

~~
William Watson (1858-1935)
from Collected Poems, 1899

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

William Watson biography

Michal Klajban, Sun getting through fog in the New Zealand Bush, 2019 (detail). 

CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

May / Edwin Arnold

from The Twelve Months

May

Who cares on the land to stay,
Wasting the wealth of a day?
    The fallow fields leave
    For the meadows that heave,
And away to the sea — away!

To the meadows far out on the deep,
Whose ploughs are the winds that sweep
    The green furrows high,
    When into the sky
The silvery foam-bells leap.

At sea! — my bark — at sea!
With the winds, and the wild clouds and me;
    The low shore soon
    Will be down with the moon.
And none on the waves but we!

Thy wings are abroad, my bird!
And the sound of their speed is heard;
    The scud flieth west,
    And the gull to her nest,
But they lag far behind us, my bird!

White as my true love's neck
Are the sails that shadow thy deck;
    And thine image wan,
    Like the stream-mirrored swan,
Lies dim on thy dancing track.

On! on! with a swoop and a swirl,
High over the clear waves' curl;
    Under thy prow.
    Like a fairy, now.
Make the blue water bubble with pearl.

Lo! yonder, my lady, the light!
'Tis the last of the land in sight!
    Look once — and away!
    Bows down in tbe spray;
Lighted on by the lamps of the night!

~~

Edwin Arnold (1832-1904)

from Poems: National and non-oriental, 1906

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edwin Arnold biography

Johannes Christiaan Schotel (1787-1838), "Frigate", Public domain, Wikimedia Commons.

Lament of the Irish Emigrant / Helen Selina Dufferin

 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,
    Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin’ long ago,
    When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin’ fresh and green,
    And the lark sang loud and high —
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
    And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
    The day is bright as then,
The lark’s loud song is in my ear,
    And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
    And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list’nin’ for the words
    You never more may speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane,
    And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
    I see the spire from here;
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
    And my step might break your rest —
For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep
    With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary,
    For the poor make no new friends,
    But, oh! they love the better still,
    The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
    My blessin’ and my pride;
There’s nothin’ left to care for now,
    Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
    That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
    And my arms’ young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
    And the kind look on your brow —
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
    Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
    When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin’ there,
    And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,
    When your heart was sad and sore —
Oh! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,
    Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell,
    My Mary — kind and true!
But I’ll not forget you, darling!
    In the land I’m goin’ to;—
They say there’s bread and work for all,
    And the sun shines always there,—
But I’ll not forget old Ireland,
    Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
    I’ll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
    To the place where Mary lies,—
And I’ll think I see the little stile
    Where we sat side by side,
And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn,
    When first you were my bride!

~~
Helen Selina Dufferin (1807-1867)
from The Keepsake, 1840

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Helen Selina Dufferin biography

"Lament of the Irish Emigrant" sung by Tom Blackwood.

To My Mother / Edgar Allan Poe

To My Mother

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
    The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
    None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you —
    You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
    In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother — my own mother, who died early,
    Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
    And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

~~
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
from Poetical Works, 1858

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edgar Allan Poe biography

"To My Mother" read by The Wandering Paddy AKA Jamie.

The Locust Tree in Flower (First Version) / William Carlos Williams

The Locust Tree in Flower

(First Version)

Among
the leaves
bright

green
of wrist-thick
tree

and old
stiff broken
branch

ferncool
swaying
loosely strung —
come May
again
white blossom

clusters
hide
to spill

their sweets
almost
unnoticed

down
and quickly
fall

~~
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
from An Early Martyr, and other poems, 1935

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

William Carlos Williams biography

Friday Musa, Locust Bean Tree at Samaru, 2023. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Spring Morning / Frances Cornford

Spring Morning

Now the moisty wood discloses
Wrinkled leaves of primèroses,
While the birds, they flute and sing:
Build your nests, for here is Spring.

All about the open hills
Daises shew their peasant frills,
Washed and white and newly spun
For a festival of sun.

Like a blossom from the sky,
Drops a yellow butterfly.
Dancing down the hedges grey
Snow-bestrewn till yesterday.

Squirrels skipping up the trees
Smell how Spring is in the breeze,
While the birds, they flute and sing:
Build your nests, for here is Spring.

~~
Frances Cornford (1886-1960)
from Spring Morning, 1923

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

Frances Cornford biography

Jonathan Billinger, Spring Morning, April 2013. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Green Things Growing / Dinah Maria Craik

Green Things Growing

O the green things growing, the green things growing,
The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!
I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve,
Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.

O the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!
How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing;
In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight
Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing.

I love, I love them so – my green things growing!
And I think that they love me, without false showing;
For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,
With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.

And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing
Ten for one I take they're on me bestowing:
Oh, I should like to see, if God's will it may be,
Many, many a summer of my green things growing!

But if I must be gathered for the angel's sowing,
Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things growing,
Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn,
If I may change into green things growing.

~~
Dinah Maria Craik (1826-1887)

from Thirty Years: Being poems new and old, 1881

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Dinah Maria Craik biography

Claude Monet (1840-1926), Woman Sitting in the Garden, 1876 (detail).

Public domain, courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

May's featured poem

The Penny Blog's featured poem for May 2024:

May Evening in Central Park, by Amy Lowell

[...]

I am a lover 

Tracking the silver foot-prints 

Of the moon. 

I am a young man, 

In Central Park,     

With Spring 

Bursting over me. 

[...]

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2013/05/may-central-park.html

 

Penny's Top 20 / April 2024

                                   

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in April 2024:

  1.  April Weather, Edith Wyatt

  2.  A Morning Song (for the First Day of Spring), Eleanor Farjeon

  3.  Skating, William Wordsworth

  4.  Winter Ghost (Taking a Time Out), Will Dockery

  5.  Bird Cage, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau

  6.  February, George J. Dance
  7.  Silk Diamond, George Sulzbach 

  8.  Darkness, Lord Byron
  9.  When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer, Walt Whitman

10.  August, Edmund Spenser

11.  Sea-Fever, John Masefield
12.  June Rain, Richard Aldington

13.  The Dwarf, Wallace Stevens

14.  Song at Parting, Francis Sherman
15.  An April Rain Song, Langston Hughes

16.  April in the Hills, Archibald Lampman

17.  April, Edwin Arnold

18.  The April Day, Caroline Bowles Southey
19.  June Rain, Louise Driscoll

20. April Rain, Lew Sarett

Source: Blogger, "Stats"