February / Sophie Jewett

February

Last night I heard a robin sing;
And though I walked where woods were bare,
And winds were cold, life quivered there,
As if in sleep the heart of spring
Were moved to dim remembering.
To-day no promise haunts the air;
I find but snow and silence where
Last night I heard a robin sing.

~~
Sophie Jewett (1861-1909), 1893
from The Pilgrim, and other poems, 1896

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Sophie Jewett biography

Kenneth Allen, Winter Robin, Mullaghmore, 2013. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

October / Dinah Maria Craik

Enoch Luong, Autumn Robin (Canada), October 2022.

CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

October

It is no joy to me to sit
    On dreamy summer eves,
When silently the timid moon
    Kisses the sleeping leaves,
And all things through the fair hushed earth
    Love, rest – but nothing grieves.
Better I like old Autumn
    With his hair tossed to and fro,
Firm striding o'er the stubble fields
    When the equinoctials blow.

When shrinkingly the sun creeps up
    Through misty mornings cold,
And Robin on the orchard hedge
    Sings cheerily and bold,
While the frosted plum
    Drops downward on the mould;–
And as he passes, Autumn
    Into earth's lap does throw
Brown apples gay in a game of play,
    As the equinoctials blow.

When the spent year its carol sinks
    Into a humble psalm,
Asks no more for the pleasure draught,
    But for the cup of balm,
And all its storms and sunshine bursts
    Controls to one brave calm,–
Then step by step walks Autumn,
    With steady eyes that show
Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year,
    While the equinoctials blow.

~~
Dinah Maria Craik (1826-1887)

from Thirty Years: Being poems new and old, 1881

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

"Autumn" read for LibriVox. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.

Dinah Maria Craik biography

March / H. Cordelia Ray

from The Procession of the Seasons

March

Robin! Robin! Call the Springtime!
    March is halting on his way;
Hear the gusts. What! snowflakes falling!
    Look not for the grass today.
    Ay, the wind will frisk and play,
    And we cannot say it nay.

~~
H. Cordelia Ray (1852-1916)
from Poems, 1910

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[April]

H. Cordelia Ray biography

Tim Felce, "Robin - March 2009." CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons. 

To October / William Curtis

To October

How bright, loved month, upon the fading brow
Of yonder hill, with melancholy air
Spreads thy sweet smile! How bright the hectic glow
Of dying beauty on thy cheek so fair!
The plaintive red-breast, midst the golden glare,
Soothes with his tender notes the parting year,
He sings as rosy May's soft blush were there;—
Ah, sure he knows not angry winter's near!
The lowering storm that quickly will be here,
Fluttering the beauties of thy chequer'd grove,
Rises unheeded, nor disturbs his cheer:
Sweet is his song as when each note was love,
And happier he than man, still doom'd to throw
O'er present joy the shade of future woe!

~~
William Curtis
from Poems, 1820

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Photo: http://www.ForestWander.com, Autumn Trees, Cloudy Sky.

CC BY-SA 3.0, Wikimedia Commons

William Curtis biography

October / Rebecca Hey

from The Poetical Calendar

October

Autumn! a touching monitress art thou!
When, like a widow, thou dost throw aside
Thy idle gauds, thy glance of conscious pride,
And, kerchief'd in dim clouds, dost meekly throw
A faded garland round thy sadden'd brow.
I love to cope thee in thy chasten'd mood,
For earnestly, yet still in tones subdued,
Thou breathest truths befitting me to know:
And all things aid thy sober teaching well;
The mournful music of the falling leaves
Goes to the heart emphatic as a knell;
And, for the reaper's song amid the sheaves,
Yon robin, on the almost leafless spray,
Pours wildly sweet his solitary lay.

~~
Rebecca Hey (1797-1867)

from Recollections of the Lakes, and other poems, 1841

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[November]

Rebecca Hey biography

Early April / James Oppenheim

Early April

To a bird's high-piped preamble,
    Hark! a glory through the Park,
Through the saplings and the bramble
    Sparkling over the dripping bark,
Sunlight fell, golden-hued,
    Fall'n without a warning,
Kissing the caverns of the wood
    On an April morning.

Robin, Robin Redbreast
    Danced upon the turf,
In the lake the ripple's crest
    Mimic'd Ocean's surf.
And the branches splattered the dew
    Over the lush, wet ground —
Dawn only lacked of you
    To have its glory crowned.

In the ample stretch of heaven
    There was not a fleck, a streamer,
All the perfect air was given,
    Delicious food, to me, the dreamer;
Loaf, laze and idle
    The delicate dawn away,
With thoughts of the bridal
    On a rare June day.

I sat all alone,
    Squirrels tufted their tails,
And silver fancies, shower-strown,
    I beat, as with a flail,
Shaping them now to the fluty
    Lyric of a bird.
Now to the rose-bud beauty
    Of a golden word.

Oh, what is a pleasure
    If It is not shared?
What the sweetest leisure
    When a heart's unpaired?
It is as if a ring
    Lacked its perfect stone —
On that dancing morning of Spring
    I sat there alone.

~~

James Oppenheim (1882-1932)

from Monday Morning, and other poems, 1909

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

James Oppenheim biography 

Digging / Edward Thomas

Digging

Today I think
Only with scents,– scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth.

~~
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
from Last Poems, 1918

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Thomas biography

"Digging" read by Patrick Wallace. Courtesy Poems Cafe.

Berkshires in April / Clement Wood

Berkshires in April

It is not spring — not yet —
But at East Schaghticoke I saw an ivory birch
Lifting a filmy red mantle of knotted buds
Above the rain-washed whiteness of her arms.

It is not spring — not yet —
But by Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting,
Thin, still, and fidgetty;
Not like the puffed, complacent ball of feathers
That dawdles over the cidery autumn loam.

It is not spring — not yet —
But up the stocky Pownal hills
Some springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness,
Climbs, flaming, over the melting snows.

It is not spring — not yet —
But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden,
Their tall tips flinging the sun’s rays back at him;
And as the sun drags over the Berkshire crests
The willows glow, the scarlet bushes burn,
The high hill birches shine like purple plumes,
A royal head-dress for the brow of spring.
It is the doubtful, unquiet end of winter,
And spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil.

~~
Clement Wood (1888-1950)
from Poetry, April 1918

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

Clement Wood biography

Winter / Walter de la Mare [1906]

Winter

 And the robin flew
 Into the air, the air,
The white mist through;
And small and rare
The night-frost fell
Into the calm and misty dell.

And the dusk gathered low,
And the silver moon and stars
On the frozen snow
Drew taper bars,
Kindled winking fires
In the hooded briers.

And the sprawling Bear
Growled deep in the sky;
And Orion’s hair
Streamed sparkling by:
But the North sighed low,
“Snow, snow, more snow!”

~~
Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)
from Poems, 1906

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

Walter de la Mare biography

There Will Come Soft Rains / Sara Teasdale

There Will Come Soft Rains

(For war time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

~~
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933), 1918
from Flame and Shadow, 1920

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

Sara Teasdale biography

"There Will Come Soft Rains" read & illustrated by Xulin Wang.

The Songster / Pauline Johnson

The Songster

Music, music with throb and swing,
    Of a plaintive note, and long;
’Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,—
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
    Is sweet as the robin’s song.

He sings for love of the season
    When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
    That his breast was born for song.

Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
    Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
    Till his music drowns the day.

He sings for love of the season
    When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
    That his breast was born for song.

~~
Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake) (1861-1913)
From Canadian Born, 1903

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Pauline Johnson biography

"The Songster" sung by SCACS High School Ladies Ensemble.

Courtesy Northside Baptist Church - Charleston SC.

The Soul of Summer / Edward Sapir

The Soul of Summer

Incessant chatter of blackbirds over the flags,
Sinuous falls of the swallows and sudden turns,
Short flights, preoccupied, of the robin mothers —
This is the living summer, this is summer.

The fine dust drifts in the torpid air, sluggish —
A faint-blue shadow veil hung before green,
A dry hush on the grass stalks, on the corn stalks —
Lazy dust-drift of the heavy summer.

This is summer fulfilled, this is the summer
Of waiting wings, still wings in passionate tremor.
This is the summer when torpor blossoms to storms
And throbbing wings burst out to the height of the wind.

I too know the summer, I know the summer
Of light poured on the soft white of her neck;
I know the hair that flashed in the summer sun.    
I know the summer whose laughter pierced my heart.

~~
Edward Sapir (1884-1939)
from Poetry, August 1919

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

Edward Sapir biography

Red Clover / Elaine & Dora Read Goodale

Red Clover

Crimson clover I discover
     By the garden gate,
And the bees about her hover,
     But the robins wait.
          Sing, robins, sing,
               Sing a roundelay, —
          'Tis the latest flower of Spring,
               Coming with the May!

Crimson clover I discover
     In the open field,
Mellow sunlight brooding over,
     All her warmth revealed.
          Sing, robins, sing,
               'Tis no longer May, —
          Fuller bloom doth Summer bring,
               Ripened thro' delay!

~~
Elaine Goodale (1863-1953) & Dora Read Goodale (1866-1953)
from All Round the Year: Verses from Sky Farm, 1881

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Elaine Goodale biography 
Dora Read Goodale biography 

When Trees are Green / Jean Blewett

When Trees are Green

Would you be glad of heart and good?
     Would you forget life's toil and care?
Come, lose yourself in this old wood
     When May's soft touch is everywhere.

The hawthorn trees are white as snow,
     The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays,
The willows kiss the stream below
     And listen to its flatteries:

"O willows supple, yellow, green,
     Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone,
I say with truth I have not seen
     A rarer beauty than your own!"

The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech
     With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife;
Oak, maple, through the heart of each
     There runs a glorious tide of life.

Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand,
     On trunk and limb a hint of red,
The gleam of poplars tall that stand
     With God's own sunshine on their head.

The mandrake's silken parasol
     Is fluttering in the breezes bold,
And yonder where the waters brawl
     The buttercups show green and gold.

The slender grape-vine sways and weaves,
     From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloom
There comes the smell of earth and leaves,
     The breath of wild-flowers all abloom.

Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast,
     Spring's joy is in the robin's song:
"My mate is in yon sheltered nest;
     Ho! love is sweet and summer long!"

While full and jubilant and clear,
     All the long day, from dawn till dark,
The trill of bobolink we hear,
     Of hermit thrush and meadowlark.

Sit here among the grass and fern
     Unmindful of the cares of life,
The lessons we have had to learn,
     The hurts we've gotten in the strife.

There's youth in every breath we take,
     Forgetfulness of loss and tears,
Within the heart there seems to wake
     The gladness of the long past years.

Peace keeps us company to-day
     In this old fragrant, shadowy wood;
We lift our eyes to heaven and say:
     The world is fair and God is good.

~~
Jean Blewett (1872-1934)
from The Cornflower, and other poems, 1906

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

Jean Blewett biography

"When Trees are Green" read by Harrison Root. Courtesy Pilgrimage of Poetry.

Spring's Welcome / John Lyly

from Campaspe (1584)

Spring's Welcome

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]

John Lyly biography

To Fredericton in May-Time / Charles G.D. Roberts

To Fredericton in May-Time

This morning, full of breezes and perfume,
     Brimful of promise of midsummer weather,
     When bees and birds and I are glad together,
Breathes of the full-leaved season, when soft gloom
Chequers thy streets, and thy close elms assume
     Round roof and spire the semblance of green billows;
     Yet now thy glory is the yellow willows,
The yellow willows, full of bees and bloom.
Under their dusty blossoms blackbirds meet,
     And robins pipe amid the cedars nigher;
Thro’ the still elms I hear the ferry’s beat;
     The swallows chirp about the towering spire;
The whole air pulses with its weight of sweet;
     Yet not quite satisfied is my desire!

---
Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943), 1881
from In Divers Tones, 1886

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

Charles G.D. Roberts biography

Poets' Corner, University of New Brunswick, Fredericton, NB.

Courtesy MyNewBrunswick.ca.