Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head
With silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
With its pitty-pat.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep tune
On our roof at night,
And I love the rain.
~~ Langston Hughes (1902-1967) from The Brownies' Book, April 1921
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Blossom of the almond-trees,
April's gift to April's bees,
Birthday ornament of spring,
Flora's fairest daughterling!—
Coming when no flow'rets dare
Trust the cruel outer air;
When the royal king-cup bold
Will not don his coat of gold;
And the sturdy blackthorn spray
Keeps its silver for the May;—
Coming when no flow'rets would,
Save thy lowly sisterhood
Early violets, blue and white,
Dying for their love of light.
Almond blossom, sent to teach us
That the spring-days soon will reach us,
Lest, with longing over-tried,
We die as the violets died.
Blossom, clouding all the tree
With thy crimson 'broidery,
Long before a leaf of green
On the bravest bough is seen;
Ah! when wintry winds are swinging
All thy red bells into ringing,
With a bee in every bell,
Almond bloom, we greet thee well!
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted
knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
~~
John Masefield (1878-1967)
from Salt-Water Ballads, 1902
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
And after many days (for I shall keep These old things unforgotten, nevertheless!) My lids at last, feeling thy faint caress,
Shall open, April, to the wooded sweep
Of Northern hills; and my slow blood shall leap And surge, for joy and very wantonness — Like Northern waters when thy feet possess
The valleys, and the green year wakes from sleep.
That morn the drowsy South, as we go forth (Unseen thy hand in mine; I, seen of all) Will marvel that I seek the outmost quay,—
The while, gray leagues away, a new-born North Harkens with wonder to thy rapturous call For some old lover down across the sea.
~~ Francis Sherman (1871-1926) from Two Songs at Parting, 1899
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought — and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died —
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless —
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge —
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them — She was the Universe.
~~ George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) from The Prisoner of Chillon, and other poems, 1816
When I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure
them;
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
~~ Walt Whitman (1819-1892) from Drum-taps, 1865 [Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings;and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
~~ E.E. Cummings (1894-1962) from XAIPE: Seventy-one poems, 1950
There’s an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea, Here’s to the Saint that blessed it!
And here’s to the billows wild and free That for centuries have caressed it!
Here’s to the day when the men that roam Send longing eyes o’er the water!
Here’s to the land that still spells home To each loyal son and daughter!
Here’s to old Ireland — fair, I ween, With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here’s to her shamrock warm and green, And here’s to the hearts that love her!
~~ Jean Blewett (1872-1954) from The Cornflower, and other poems, 1906
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
Welcome, North-wind! from the Norland;
Strike upon our foremost foreland,
Sweep away across the moorland, Do thy lusty kind!
Thou and we were born together
In the black Norwegian weather;
Birds we be of one brave feather, Welcome, bully wind!
Buss us! set our girls' cheeks glowing; Southern blood asks sun for flowing,
North blood warms when winds are blowing, Most of all winds, thou;
There's a sea-smack in thy kisses
Better than all breezy blisses,
So we know, our kinsman this is: Buss us! cheek and brow.
Rollick out thy wild sea-catches,
Roar thy stormy mad sea-snatches,
What bare masts and battened hatches Thou hast left behind;
Ring it, till our ears shall ring, too,
How thou mad'st the Frenchman bring-to:
That's the music Northmen sing to, Burly brother wind!
Go! with train of spray and sea-bird,
Fling the milky waves to leeward,
Drive the ragged rain-clouds seaward, Chase the scudding ships;
To the South-wind take our greeting,
Bid him bring the Spring — his Sweeting —
Say what glad hearts wait her meeting, What bright eyes and lips.
Pines cut dark on a bronze sky . . .
A juniper tree laughing to the harp of the wind . . .
Last year's oak leaves rustling . . .
And oh, the sky like a heart of fire
Burned down to those coals that have the color of fruit . . .
Cherries . . . light red grapes . . .
~~ Hilda Conkling (1910-1986) fromShoes of the Wind, 1922
[Poem is in the public domain in the United States]
When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.
~~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) from Voices of the Night, 1839
Late February days; and now, at last,
Might you have thought that winter's woe was past;
So fair the sky was, and so soft the air.
The happy birds were hurrying here and there,
As something soon would happen. Reddened now
The hedges, and in gardens many a bough
Was overbold of buds. Sweet days, indeed,
Although past road and bridge, through wood and mead,
Swift ran the brown stream, swirling by the grass,
And in the hillside hollows snow yet was.
~~ William Morris (1834-1896) from Through the Year with the Poets: February, 1886
The rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gilding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old Manor Farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. The church and yew
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart-horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter —
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and thatch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.
My lady is not learned in many books, Nor hath much love for grave discourses strung With gaudy similes, for she is young,
And full of merry pranks and laughing looks.
But yet her heart hath many tender nooks Of fervour and sweet charity; her tongue, For all its laughter, yet is often wrung
With soft compassion for life's painful crooks.
I love my lady for her lovely face, And for her mouth, and for her eyes, and hair;
More still I love her for her laughing grace, And for her wayward ways, and changeful air;
But most of all love gaineth ground apace, Because my lady's heart is pure and fair.
~~ Archibald Lampman (1861-1899), 1885 from At the Long Sault, and other new poems, 1943 [Poem is in the public domain in Canada]
Asia: My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside a helm conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. It seems to float ever, forever, Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses!
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.
Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In music's most serene dominions;
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. And we sail on, away, afar, Without a course, without a star,
But, by the instinct of sweet music driven; Till through Elysian garden islets By thee most beautiful of pilots, Where never mortal pinnace glided, The boat of my desire is guided;
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds on the waves doth move,
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above.
We have passed Age's icy caves, And Manhood's dark and tossing waves,
And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray; Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee Of shadow-peopled Infancy,
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day; A paradise of vaulted bowers Lit by downward-gazing flowers, And watery paths that wind between Wildernesses calm and green,
Peopled by shapes too bright to see,
And rest, having beheld; somewhat like thee;
Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously!
~~ Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) from Prometheus Unbound, with other poems, 1820
Fair Grecian legend, that, in Spring,
Seeking sweet tale for sunnier hours,
Fabled how Enna's queen did bring
Back from the underworld her flowers!
Whence come ye else, goblets of gold,
Which men the yellow crocus call ?
You snow-drops, maiden-meek and cold,
What other fingers let you fall?
What hand but hers, who, wont to rove
The asphodel in Himera,
Torn thence by an ungentle love,
Flung not her favourites away?
King of dark death! on thoughts that roam
Thy passion and thy power were spent:
When blossom-time is clue at home,
Homeward the soul's strong wings are bent.
So comes she. with her pleasant wont,
When Spring-time chases Winter cold,
Couching against his frozen front
Her tiny spears of green and gold.
The page is snowy white, the pen is dipped,
And yet unwritten is this manuscript —
Save for a scattered letter leagues apart.
But through this frail beginning I can peer
On days when all this wilderness shall hear
The rhythmic throbbings of the human heart.
The heavens are bare; no clouds are on her face
To make the laggard sun increase his pace
Above the rusted hillocks bare and red.
The yellow straw-pipes, spearing through the ice,
Are lovely from an ancient sacrifice;
They gave and hear the nations breaking bread.
The prairie lands are spread to-day for me
Like frozen billows on a pulseless sea
That waits the golden wheat’s releasing tide.
Here, in his largest mood, the artist tries
To catch the amber glory with his dyes,
And sees, with aching soul, his task defied.
Bolder, the poet, with a stronger hand
Anoints with song this little-laurelled land,
Weaving the west winds wildly in his rune.
He sees the cattle stand with moveless tails,
And heads together, to outwit the gales
That blow the bronze of summer from the moon.
He sees, beside a ridge where poplars grow,
A bronco coldly nosing in the snow,
And gains the prairie vastness from his form.
He sees the patient straw-stack, brown with rain,
A giant, ripened mushroom of the plain
Whose stem is worn by rubbing flank and storm.
Here, while the blizzard aches its heart in sound,
The cattle move like driftwood, ’round and ’round,
Yea, ’round and ’round as in a whirlpool’s reach.
And, in a nook that lulls the wilder whine,
A shaggy bush claims kinship with the pine
And meets the gale with boldness in its speech;
Or, with a thought for some far woodland, dense,
Her branches wail against an old offense —
Complaining of the hoof that brought them here.
No lordly tree this land shall ever dare;
And yet, unfearful of their valiant fare,
Soon, in this vast, shall frailest flowers appear.
Where Might doth falter, Beauty enters in;
Where Pride shall fail, Humility shall win.
And this will be until the heavens are old.
And here, to prove the adage, I shall pass
When April kindles beauty in the grass
And warms these frozen fields with red and gold.
~~ Wilson MacDonald (1880-1967) from Out of the Wilderness, 1926 [Poem is in the public domain in Canada]
Last night a January wind was ripping at the shingles over our house and whistling a wolf song under the eaves.
I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came.
And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand.
A man is crossing a big prairie, says the poem, and nothing happens — and he goes on and on — and it's all lonesome and empty and nobody home.
And he goes on and on — and nothing happens — and he comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse — and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and empty and nobody home.
And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows — he fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder- cry.
And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre projectile,
I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts of Manitoba and Minnesota — in the sled derby run from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.
He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg — the lead dog is eaten by four team mates — and the man goes on and on — running while the other racers ride, running while the other racers sleep —
Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle of travel hour after hour — fighting the dogs who dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep — pushing on — running and walking five hundred miles to the end of the race — almost a winner — one toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten.
And I know why a thousand young men of the North- west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers — I know why judges of the race call him a winner and give him a special prize even though he is a loser.
I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland — and I told the six year old girl about it.
And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand.
~~ Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) from Corhhuskers, 1918 [Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Rain — hail — sleet — snow! — Yet, in my East,
This is the time when palm-trees quicken
With flowers, wherefrom the Arabs' feast
Of amber dates will thenceforth thicken.
Palms, — he and she, — in sight they grow;
And o'er the desert-sands is wafted,
On light airs of the After-glow,
That golden dust whence fruit is grafted.
Ah, happy trees! who feel no frost
Of winter-time, to chill your gladness;
And grow not close enough for cost
Of bliss fulfilled, which heightens sadness;
No gray reality's alloy
Your green ideal can diminish!
You have love's kiss, in all its joy ,
Without love's lips, which let it finish!
.jpg)
