 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
APRIL
To Richard Le Gallienne.
A pleasant heat breathes off the scented grass,
From bright green blades, and shining daisies:
Now give we joy, who sometime cried, Alas!
Now set we forth our melodies, and sing
Soft praises to the spring,
Musical praises.
From bright green blades, and shining daisies:
Now give we joy, who sometime cried, Alas!
Now set we forth our melodies, and sing
Soft praises to the spring,
Musical praises.
The flying winds are lovely with the sun:
Now all in sweet and dainty fashion
Goes life: for royal seasons are begun.
Now each new day and each new promise add
Fresh cause of being glad,
With vernal passion.
Now all in sweet and dainty fashion
Goes life: for royal seasons are begun.
Now each new day and each new promise add
Fresh cause of being glad,
With vernal passion.
Few leaves upon the branches dare the spring:
But many buds are making ready,
Trusting the sun, their perfect summer king.
Likewise we put away our wintry cares:
We hear but happy airs;
Our hopes are steady.
But many buds are making ready,
Trusting the sun, their perfect summer king.
124
We hear but happy airs;
Our hopes are steady.
Cold were the crystal rivers, bitter cold;
And snows upon the iron mountains;
And withering leaves upon the trodden mould.
Hark to the crystal voices of the rills,
Falling among the hills,
From secret fountains!
And snows upon the iron mountains;
And withering leaves upon the trodden mould.
Hark to the crystal voices of the rills,
Falling among the hills,
From secret fountains!
Long not for June with roses: nor for nights
Loud with tumultuary thunder:
Those hours wax heavy with their fierce delights.
But April is all bright, and gives us first,
Before the roses burst,
Her joy and wonder.
Loud with tumultuary thunder:
Those hours wax heavy with their fierce delights.
But April is all bright, and gives us first,
Before the roses burst,
Her joy and wonder.
Clear lie the fields, and fade into blue air:
Here, sweet concerted birds are singing
Around this lawn of sweet grass, warm and fair.
And holy music, through the waving trees,
Comes gently down the breeze,
Where bells are ringing.
Here, sweet concerted birds are singing
Around this lawn of sweet grass, warm and fair.
And holy music, through the waving trees,
Comes gently down the breeze,
Where bells are ringing.
1889.
| Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson | |