A bud has burst on the upper bough
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
I know where the pale green grasses show
By a tiny runnel, off the way,
And the earth is wet.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Not yet.”)
I nabbed the fly in a briar rose
(The linnet to-day in my heart did sing);
Last night, my head tucked under my wing,
I dreamed of a green moon-moth that glows
Thro’ ferns of June.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “So soon?”)
Good-bye, for the pretty leaves are down
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
The last gold bit of upland’s mown,
And most of summer has blown away
Thro’ the garden gate.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Too late.”)
~~ Trumbull Stickney (1874-1904) from Dramatic Verses, 1902
Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle, The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing In leafy dells alone;
And traveller's joy beguiles in autumn Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter And stain the wind with leaves.
Possess, as I possessed a season, The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature, Will neither care nor know
What stranger's feet may find the meadow And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning If they are mine or no.
~~
A.E. Housman (1859-1936)
from Last Poems, 1922
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclin'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,
In fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone —
We frolic, while 'tis May.
~~
Thomas Gray (1716-1771) from Poems by Mr. Gray, 1768
I wish I were to-day on the hill behind the wood,–
My eyes on the brown bog there and the Shannon river,–
Behind the wood at home, a quickened solitude
When the winds from Slieve Bloom set the branches there a-quiver.
The winds are there now and the green of May
On every feathery tree-bough, tender on every hedge:
Over the bog-fields there larks carol to-day,
And a cuckoo is mocking them out of the woodland's edge.
Here a country warmth is quiet on the rocks
That alone make never a change when the May is duly come;
Here sings no lark, and to-day no cuckoo mocks:
Over the wide hill a hawk floats, and the leaves are dumb.
~~
Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916)
from Poetical Works, 1916
Blue July, bright July,
Month of storms and gorgeous blue;
Violet lightnings o'er thy sky,
Heavy falls of drenching dew;
Summer crown! o'er glen and glade
Shrinking hyacinths in their shade;
I welcome thee with all thy pride,
I love thee like an Eastern bride.
Though all the singing days are done
As in those climes that clasp the sun;
Though the cuckoo in his throat
Leaves to the dove his last twin note;
Come to me with thy lustrous eye,
Golden-dawning oriently,
Come with all thy shining blooms,
Thy rich red rose and rolling glooms.
Though the cuckoo doth but sing 'cuk, cuk,'
And the dove alone doth coo;
Though the cushat spins her coo-r-roo, r-r-roo –
To the cuckoo's halting 'cuk.'
II
Sweet July, warm July!
Month when mosses near the stream,
Soft green mosses thick and shy,
Are a rapture and a dream.
Summer Queen! whose foot the fern
Fades beneath while chestnuts burn;
I welcome thee with thy fierce love,
Gloom below and gleam above.
Though all the forest trees hang dumb,
With dense leafiness o'ercome;
Though the nightingale and thrush,
Pipe not from the bough or bush;
Come to me with thy lustrous eye,
Azure-melting westerly,
The raptures of thy face unfold,
And welcome in thy robes of gold!
Tho' the nightingale broods – 'sweet-chuck-sweet' –
And the ouzel flutes so chill,
Tho' the throstle gives but one shrilly trill
To the nightingale's 'sweet-sweet.'
The May returns! Once more the kindling blood
Flows through the heart of the resplendent year;
The mighty sea of life is now at flood,
And Summer's thousand voices murmur near.
High up the lark, among the morning beams,
Mounts like a kindred fire that hails the day;
The wandering music haunts the woods and streams,
And gladdens the full heart of happy May.
Far off at eve the nightingale is heard,
Hid in dim leaves where whispering waters fall,
And sought, but still unseen, the schoolboy's bird,
From bowers, long-lost, renews her echoing call.
Now Hope, once more doth like a herald blow
Her stately trumpet through our desert life ;
On the dark cloud Peace hangs her fading bow.
And, as it fades, Love comes to soften strife.
The May returns, and with her light and bloom
Returns the toil that heaps the year with gold —
The thought that with the gladness blends a gloom,
When once the fairy tale of youth is told.
Yet 'mid the sound and splendour of the May
I stand and dream, as winds and waters chime,
Of nobler summers, of an ampler day.
And praise the splendid promise of man's prime.
Taught that the leaves must fall ere buds can blow.
Taught that the flower must fade ere fruits can shine,
I hear glad harvests rustle ere they grow,
Bless my wild hope and call my dream divine.
~~ W.M.W. Call (1817-1890) from Reverberations, 1875
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
John Lyly (?1553-1606) from The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900, 1919
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
