The Second Book of Modern Verse | Page 5

up the tomb;?And the earth was then silent for the space of three hours. But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom?Shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers.
"There will come Soft Rain". [Sara Teasdale]
There will come soft rain 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.
Spring Song. [William Griffith]
Softly at dawn a whisper stole?Down from the Green House on the Hill,?Enchanting many a ghostly bole?And wood-song with the ancient thrill.
Gossiping on the country-side,?Spring and the wandering breezes say,?God has thrown Heaven open wide?And let the thrushes out to-day.
The Day before April. [Mary Carolyn Davies]
The day before April?Alone, alone,?I walked in the woods?And I sat on a stone.
I sat on a broad stone?And sang to the birds.?The tune was God's making?But I made the words.
Berkshires in April. [Clement Wood]
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 at Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting,?Thin, still, and fidgety,?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 headdress for the brow of Spring.?It is the doubtful, unquiet end of Winter,?And Spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil.
In Excelsis. [Thomas S. Jones, Jr.]
Spring!?And all our valleys turning into green,?Remembering --?As I remember! So my heart turns glad?For so much youth and joy -- this to have had?When in my veins the tide of living fire?Was at its flow;?This to know,?When now the miracle of young desire?Burns on the hills, and Spring's sweet choristers again?Chant from each tree and every bush aflame?Love's wondrous name;?This under youth's glad reign,?With all the valleys turning into green --?This to have heard and seen!
And Song!?Once to have known what every wakened bird?Has heard;?Once to have entered into that great harmony?Of love's creation, and to feel?The pulsing waves of wonder steal?Through all my being; once to be?In that same sea?Of wakened joy that stirs in every tree?And every bird; and then to sing --?To sing aloud the endless Song of Spring!
Waiting, I turn to Thee,?Expectant, humble, and on bended knee;?Youth's radiant fire?Only to burn at Thy unknown desire --?For this alone has Song been granted me.?Upon Thy altar burn me at Thy will;?All wonders fill?My cup, and it is Thine;?Life's precious wine?For this alone: for Thee.?Yet never can be paid?The debt long laid?Upon my heart, because my lips did press?In youth's glad Spring the Cup of Loveliness!
Blue Squills. [Sara Teasdale]
How many million Aprils came?Before I ever knew?How white a cherry bough could be,?A bed of squills, how blue.
And many a dancing April?When life is done with me,?Will lift the blue flame of the flower?And the white flame of the tree.
Oh, burn me with your beauty, then,?Oh, hurt me, tree and flower,?Lest in the end death try to take?Even this glistening hour.
O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees,?O sunlit white and blue,?Wound me, that I through endless sleep?May bear the scar of you.
Earth. [John Hall Wheelock]
Grasshopper, your fairy song?And my poem alike belong?To the dark and silent earth?From which all poetry has birth;?All we say and all we sing?Is but as the murmuring?Of that drowsy heart of hers?When from her deep dream she stirs:?If we sorrow, or rejoice,?You and I are but her voice.
Deftly does the dust express?In mind her hidden loveliness,?And from her cool silence stream?The cricket's cry and Dante's dream;?For the earth that breeds the trees?Breeds cities too, and symphonies.?Equally her beauty flows?Into a savior, or a rose --?Looks down in dream, and from above?Smiles at herself in Jesus' love.?Christ's love and Homer's art?Are but the workings of her heart;?Through Leonardo's hand she seeks?Herself, and through Beethoven speaks?In holy thunderings around?The awful message of the ground.
The serene and humble mold?Does in herself all selves enfold --?Kingdoms, destinies, and creeds,?Great dreams, and dauntless deeds,?Science that metes the firmament,?The high, inflexible intent?Of one for many sacrificed --?Plato's brain, the heart of Christ:?All love, all