Loveliest of Trees

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

--A. E. Housman (1859-1936), British poet and professor

Dame Judi Dench recites this poem here:

Metamorphosis

Always it happens when we are not there —
The tree leaps up alive in the air,
Small open parasols of Chinese green
Wave on each twig. But who has ever seen
The latch sprung, the bud as it burst?
Spring always manages to get there first.

Lovers of wind, who will have been aware
Of a faint stirring in the empty air,
Look up one day through a dissolving screen
To find no star, but this multiplied green,
Shadow on shadow, singing sweet and clear.
Listen, lovers of wind, the leaves are here!

-- May Sarton (1912-1995), Belgian- American writer, memoirist, and poet

From Crossings

On St. Brigid's Day the new life could be entered
By going through her girdle of straw rope
The proper way for men was right leg first
Then right arm and right shoulder, head, then left
Shoulder, arm and leg.
Women drew it down
Over the body and stepped out of it
The open they came into by these moves
Stood opener, hoops came off the world
They could feel the February air
Still soft above their heads and imagine
The limp rope fray and flare like wind-born gleanings
Or an unhindered goldfinch over ploughland.

--Seamus Heaney (1935-2013), Irish poet, translator, teacher, essayist and winner of the Noble Prize for Literature

St. Brigid's Day is February 2.

Hum

What is this dark hum among the roses?

The bees have gone simple, sipping,
that's all. What did you expect? Sophistication?
They're small creatures and they are
filling their bodies with sweetness, how could they not
moan in happiness? The little
worker bee lives, I have read, about three weeks.
Is that long? Long enough, I suppose, to understand
that life is a blessing. I have found them — haven't you? —
stopped in the very cups of the flowers, their wings
a little tattered — so much flying about, to the hive,
then out into the world, then back, and perhaps dancing,
should the task be to be a scout-sweet, dancing bee.
I think there isn't anything in this world I don't
admire. If there is, I don't know what it is. I
haven't met it yet. Nor expect to. The bee is small,
and since I wear glasses, so I can see the traffic and
read books, I have to
take them off and bend close to study and
understand what is happening. It's not hard, it's in fact
as instructive as anything I have ever studied. Plus, too,
it's love almost too fierce to endure, the bee
nuzzling like that into the blouse
of the rose. And the fragrance, and the honey, and of course
the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over
all of us.

-- Mary Oliver (1935-2019), Pulitzer Prize winning poet and recipient of the National Book Award

Image: Bees in a Lavender Farm, Te Awamutu, New Zealand, 2023

From "Glanmore Sonnets"

for Ann Saddlemyer
‘our heartiest welcomer’

Vowels ploughed into other: opened ground.
The mildest February for 20 years
Is mist bands over furrows, a deep no sound
Vulnerable to distant gargling tractors.
Our road is steaming, the turned-up acres breathe.
Now the good life could be to cross a field
And art a paradigm of earth knew from the lathe
Of plows. My lea is deeply tilled.
Old plough-socks gorge the subsoil of each sense
And I am quickened with a redolence
Of farmland as a dark unblown rose.
Wait then… Breasting the mist, in sowers’ aprons,
My ghosts come striding into their spring stations.
The dream grain whirls like freakish Easter snows.

--Seamus Heaney (1939-2013), from the “Glanmore Sonnets,” in Field Work, 1979

To Ellen, at the South

The green grass is growing,

The morning wind is in it, 

'Tis a tune worth the knowing, 

Though it change every minute. '

Tis a tune of the spring, 

Every year plays it over, 

To the robin on the wing, 

To the pausing lover. 

O'er ten thousand thousand acres 

Goes light the nimble zephyr, 

The flowers, tiny feet of shakers, 

Worship him ever. 

Hark to the winning sound! 

They summon thee, dearest, 

Saying; "We have drest for thee the ground, 

Nor yet thou appearest. 

"O hasten, 'tis our time, 

Ere yet the red summer 

Scorch our delicate prime, 

Loved of bee, the tawny hummer. 

"O pride of thy race! 

Sad in sooth it were to ours, 

If our brief tribe miss thy face,— 

We pour New England flowers. 

 "Fairest! choose the fairest members 

Of our lithe society; 

June's glories and September's 

Show our love and piety. 

 "Thou shalt command us all, 

April's cowslip, summer's clover 

To the gentian in the fall, 

Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover. 

 "O come, then, quickly come, 

We are budding, we are blowing, 

And the wind which we perfume 

Sings a tune that's worth thy knowing."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) American essayist, poet, philosopher, abolitionist, preacher, and member of the Transcendentalists

Easter

The first forsythia;
daffodils;
gorse or whins or furze
on hills,

in hedges.
Late winter aconite;
dandelions; primroses
challenging the light

of Easter morning.
The lesser Celandine;
a yellow fertilizer
bag define

spring in our steps.
I love my children
and my wife.
Rise all again and again.

--Peter Fallon (1951- ), Irish poet and editor

Easter Week

See the land, her Easter keeping, 

Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices;
Fields and gardens hail the spring;
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,
While the wild birds build and sing.

You, to whom your Maker granted
Powers to those sweet birds unknown,
Use the craft by God implanted;
Use the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,
Each his Easter tribute bring-
Work of fingers, chant of voices,
Like the birds who build and sing.


-- Charles Kingsley (1819-1875), English priest and poet

The Green Shiver

The forest floor bleak, choked
with old leaves, winter wet. Against
the evidence, buds on the wild dogwoods
glisten, listen for a signal, lining up
for bloom-time—when to burst and who'll
be first? Every year, it's all according
to weather, the wait for the heat-throb,
wind fresh through the naked
birch trunks longing to get green.
The pressure's on, like listening for a
starter pistol, finger on the trigger.

Spring is wound tight enough to let go
any minute. Overarching the ravine,
the cedars start their annual scatter of yellow
sexual dust for the next generation.
The clematis resists her tedium of cold and brown,
cancels her winter sleep with a vertical thrust
up the trellis, like a slow shooting star.

How can we help but hope, sprouts
urged to fulfill a kind of promise—
a covenant with the world that in unfolding,
leaf tips flaring up and out, woody hearts pregnant
with bloom and blessing, we will drink rain, light,
heat for our emerald living. We face the sun
full on—its lavish encouragement for cold to lift,
shift, and move away. Holding on, ready for
that shiver, a sliver of thrill like a jade thread
through a labyrinth, when within us
something fresh and green explodes.

-- Luci Shaw (1928- ), acclaimed Anglo-American poet, retreat leader, and Episcopalian

A Love Poem for Daylight Saving Time

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
For the first time since November 6
I slept the night through.

I know some are sad,
but spring's 'round the bend,
and then here comes summer--
here's your coffee, my friend.

Like the widow who danced
when she found her lost coin,
I'll try not to rub your face in it
if you've been kicked in the... loins.

Joy comes in the morning
when the sun sets at seven
so please join my rejoicing
and go to bed by eleven!

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure and the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy and the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And to make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

--Robert Frost (1874-1963), much-lauded American poet, including four Pulitzer Prizes.

spring song

the green of Jesus

is breaking the ground

and the sweet

smell of delicious Jesus

is opening the house and

the dance of Jesus music

has hold of the air and

the world is turning

in the body of Jesus and

the future in possible

--Lucille Clifton (1936-2010), African American poet, writer, and educator, poet laureate of Mary;and, and to-time finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in poetry.

Lenten Prayer, Week 1

The lenten spring shines forth,

the flower of repentance!
Let us cleanse ourselves from all evil,
crying out to the Giver of Light:
"Glory to You, O Lover of man!"

--The Rev. Thomas Hopko (1939-2015), Orthodox priest and seminary professor, theologian, and dean, from The Lenten Spring

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.


Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.


--Robert Frost (1874-1963),  American poet and four time winner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry.

The Beltane Blessing

Bless, O Threefold true and bountiful,
Myself, my spouse, and my children,
My tender children and their beloved mother at their head.
On the fragrant plain, on the gay mountain sheiling,
On the fragrant plain, on the gay mountain sheiling.

Everything within my dwelling or in my possession,
All kine and crops, all flocks and corn,
From Hallow Eve to Beltane Eve,
With goodly progress and gentle blessing,
From sea to sea, and every river mouth,
From wave to wave, arid base of waterfall.

Be the Three Persons taking possession of all to me belonging,
Be the sure Trinity protecting me in truth;
Oh! satisfy my soul in the words of Paul,
And shield my loved ones beneath the wing of Thy glory,
Shield my loved ones beneath the wing of Thy glory.

Bless everything and every one,
Of this little household by my side;
Place the cross of Christ on us with the power of love,
Till we see the land of joy,
Till we see the land of joy.

What time the kine shall forsake the stalls,
What time the sheep shall forsake the folds,
What time the goats shall ascend to the mount of mist,
May the tending of the Triune follow them,
May the tending of the Triune follow them.

Thou being who didst create me at the beginning,
Listen and attend me as I bend the knee to Thee,
Morning and evening as is becoming in me,
In Thine own presence, O God of life,
In Thine own presence, O God of life.



-- prayer of the people of the Outer Hebrides, collected by Alexander Carmichael (1832-1912) in the Carmina Gadelica I, 183–185

Beltane is a Celtic May Day festival, halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. A "sheiling" is a pasture.

Resurrection

Long, long, long ago;
Way before this winter’s snow
First fell upon these weathered fields;
I used to sit and watch and feel
And dream of how the spring would be,
When through the winter’s stormy sea
She’d raise her green and growing head,
Her warmth would resurrect the dead.

Long before this winter’s snow
I dreamt of this day’s sunny glow
And thought somehow my pain would pass
With winter’s pain, and peace like grass
Would simply grow. (But) The pain’s not gone.
It’s still as cold and hard and long
As lonely pain has ever been,
It cuts so deep and fear within.

Long before this winter’s snow
I ran from pain, looked high and low
For some fast way to get around
Its hurt and cold. I’d have found,
If I had looked at what was there,
That things don’t follow fast or fair.
That life goes on, and times do change,
And grass does grow despite life’s pains.

Long before this winter’s snow
I thought that this day’s sunny glow,
The smiling children and growing things
And flowers bright were brought by spring.
Now, I know the sun does shine,
That children smile, and from the dark, cold, grime
A flower comes. It groans, yet sings,
And through its pain, its peace begins.

--Mary Ann Bernard, from Rueben Job and Norman Shawchuck, eds., A Guide To Prayer (Nashville: The Upper Room), p. 144.

I So Liked Spring

I so liked Spring last year
Because you were here; –
The thrushes too –
Because it was these you so liked to hear –
I so liked you.

This year’s a different thing, –
I’ll not think of you.
But I’ll like the Spring because it is simply Spring
As the thrushes do.

-- Charlotte Mew (1869-1928), British lyric poet

The Widow's Lament in Springtime

Sorrow is my one yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years
I lived with my husband. 
The plumtree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches 
and color some bushes 
yellow and some red 
but the grief in my heart 
is stronger than they 
for though they were my joy 
formerly, today I notice them 
and turn away forgetting. 
Today my son told me 
that in the meadows, 
at the edge of the heavy woods 
in the distance, he saw 
trees of white flowers. 
I feel that I would like 
to go there 
and fall into those flowers 
and sink into the marsh near them.

--William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), American poet and author

A Blackbird Singing

It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes’
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With histories overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.

--R. S. Thomas (1913-2000), Welsh poet and Anglican priest from Collected Poems, 1945-1990.

Lent: Deformed Pussy Willow

 ————–Not the branches

we cut each
————–windy March
to hang with eggs
————–dyed red.
Not those
————–we bless
with palms
————–& smoke.
These arced
————–spines & split
limbs bud
————–through straining
bark. Backs
————–humped & bent,
bound. Does
————–God suffer
these husked
————–velvet knobs?
Stunted,
————–a wreath
of tumors.
————–Yes, he does.
Gather them
————–for procession,
for the table
————–& icon,
crown for
————–weeping Theotokos.

-- Anya Krugovoy Silver (1968-2018), from Image Journal

Image from Epic Gardening