A Song The Grass Sings
The violet is much too shy,
The rose too little so;
I think I'll ask the buttercup
If I may be her beau.
When winds go by, I'll nod to her
And she will nod to me,
And I will kiss her on the cheek
As gently as may be.
And when the mower cuts us down,
Together we will pass,
I smiling at the buttercup,
She smiling at the grass.
- Charles G. Blanden
The Immortal
Spring has come up from the South again,
With soft mists in her hair,
And a warm wind in her mouth again,
And budding everywhere.
Spring has come up from the South again,
And her skies are azure fire,
And around her is the awakening
Of all the world's desire.
Spring has come up from the South again,
And dreams are in her eyes,
And music is in her mouth again,
Of love, the never-wise.
Spring has come up from the South again,
And bird and flower and bee
Know that she is their life and joy
And immortality!
- Cate Young Rice
te
April
An altered look about the hills;
A Tyrian light the village fills;
A wider sunrise in the dawn;
A deeper twilight on the lawn;
A print of a vermilion foot;
A purple finger on the slope;
A flippant fly upon the pane;
A spider at his trade again;
An added strut in chanticleer;
A flower expected everywhere;
An axe shrill singing in the woods;
Fern-odors on untraveled roads,
All this, and more I cannot tell,
A furtive look you know as well,
And Nicodemus' mystery
Receives its annual reply.
- Emily Dickinson
