Description of Spring / Henry Howard

Description of Spring, 
wherein eche thing renews, save onelie the lover

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale:
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs:  
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;
The fishes flete with new repairèd scale.
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Eche care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.

~~
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)
from Tottel's Miscellany, 1870

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey biography

"Description of Spring" reading, summary, & analysis for iswearenglish.

Saint Augustine Blues, Chorus 6 / Will Dockery

from Saint Augustine Blues 

Chorus Six

Dollars in the bucket
collect for the street singer.
Old man with beads paints a chinaberry
points out the parrots.

Blonde after blonde after blonde
after the parade.
People start looking really strange again.

I must seem likewise to them
as this dusty smell surrounds me.

I'd draw these people with words
but I'm not fast enough.
They pass and fade
part of the parade.

On this really old wall,
good view from up here.
Forever is a long time
but not as long as yesterday.

~~
Will Dockery, 1999
from Selected Poems, 1976-2019, 2019 

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

Will Dockery biography

Expecting Inspiration / George Sulzbach

Expecting Inspiration

Watching cars and people
something I do a lot.
Sitting near the alley
trying to bum a smoke.
Those rich folks
walking by
the stories they must have.
Like I don't have one
as if I was just a still life.

A smile from one
that makes my day
and a dollar or two
even more.
I'm not looking for a hand out
I don't need you to survive
I'm not asking for a donation
I'm just looking for to be inspired.

Don't need a girl friend
or a hit off the stem
I don't need a street preacher's tears.
I need something I can make art of
some sculpture
but then again no.

Making waves on down the street
those folks are not my style.
I won't beg you for no hand outs
but I'd like it if you'd  . . .
give me a smile.

~~
George Sulzbach, 2016

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

George Sulzbach biography

George Sulzbach, "Shadowville Speedway," 2008.

All rights reserved - used with permission

Ballade of the Poet's Thought / Charles G.D. Roberts

Ballade of the Poet's Thought

A poet was vexed with the fume of the street,
    With tumult wearied, with din distraught;
And very few of the passing feet
    Would stay to listen to truths he taught:
    And he said,— "My labor is all for naught;                                  
I will go, and at Nature’s lips drink deep."—
    For he knew not the wealth of the poet’s thought,
Though sweet to win, was bitter to keep.

So he left the hurry, and dust, and heat
    For the free, green forest where man was not;
And found in the wilderness’ deep retreat
    That favor with Nature which he sought.
    She spake with him, nor denied him aught,
In waking vision or visioned sleep,
    But little he guessed the wealth she brought,                              
Though sweet to win, was bitter to keep.

But now when his bosom, grown replete,
    Would lighten itself in song of what
It had gathered in silence, he could meet
    No answering thrill from his passion caught.                              
    Then grieving he fled from that quiet spot,
To where men work, and are weary, and weep;
    For he said,— "The wealth for which I wrought
Is sweet to win, but bitter to keep."

Envoi

Oh, poets bewailing your hapless lot,                                    
    That ye may not in Nature your whole hearts steep,
Know that the wealth of the poet’s thought
    Is sweet to win, but bitter to keep.

~~

Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)

from Orion, and other poems, 1880

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

Charles G.D. Roberts biography

A Song for Mother's Day / Marguerite Wilkinson

A Song for Mother's Day

Mother, you gave me sun and stars,
Great hills, and rivers undefiled,
For, when you gave me life, you gave
Love of their beauty to your child.

Without you I could not have known
The Spring that makes the valleys green,
The rustling of the wings of birds,
Or clover fragrance kind and keen.

Your travail gave me all my joys,
Laughter and talk and young delight
And dreams that float like clouds in heaven
High, high above me, shy and white.

For all these proud and lovely things
Thanks are too small a thing to give –
Mother, I thank you with my love,
Who gave me this good life to live.

~~
Marguerite Wilkinson (1883-1928)
from Bluestone: Lyrics, 1920

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

Marguerite Wilkinson biography

The Spring / Abraham Cowley

The Spring

Though you be absent here, I needs must say
The Trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
      As ever they were wont to be;
      Nay the Birds rural musick too
      Is as melodious and free,      
      As if they sung to pleasure you:
I saw a Rose-Bud ope this morn; I'll swear
The blushing Morning open'd not more fair.

How could it be so fair, and you away?
How could the Trees be beauteous, Flowers so gay?
      Could they remember but last year,
      How you did Them, They you delight,
      The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
      And call'd their Fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent Barks again.

Where e'er you walk'd trees were as reverend made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade.
      Is 't possible they should not know,
      What loss of honor they sustain,
      That thus they smile and flourish now,
      And still their former pride retain ?
Dull Creatures! 'tis not without Cause that she,
Who fled the God of wit, was made a Tree.

In ancient times sure they much wiser were,
When they rejoyc'd the Thracian verse to hear;
      In vain did Nature bid them stay,
      When Orpheus had his song begun,
      They call'd their wondring roots away,
      And bad them silent to him run.
How would those learned trees have followed you?
You would have drawn Them, and their Poet too.

But who can blame them now?  for, since you're gone,
They're here the only Fair, and Shine alone.
      You did their Natural Rights invade;
      Where ever you did walk or sit,
      The thickest Boughs could make no shade,
      Although the Sun had granted it:
The fairest Flowers could please no more, neer you,
Then Painted Flowers, set next to them, could do.

When e'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to Me.
      The little joys which here are now,
      The name of Punishments do bear;
      When by their sight they let us know
      How we depriv'd of greater are.
'Tis you the best of Seasons with you bring;
This is for Beasts, and that for Men the Spring.

~~
Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)
from The Mistress; or, Love poems, 1647

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Abraham Cowley biography

Early May in New England / Percy MacKaye

Early May in New England

Strawberry-flower and violet
Are come, but the wind blows coldly yet;
And robin's-egg skies brood sunny chill
Where hyacinth summer sleeps under the hill
     And the frog is still.

Applebloom floats on the warm blue river.
But white shad-blossoms ripple and shiver,
And purple-grackle pipes till his blithe heart grieves,
For his gladdest songs, through the little elm-leaves,
     Are but make-believes.

~~
Percy MacKaye (1875-1956)
from The Sistine Eve, and other poems, 1915

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

Percy MacKaye biography