elcome, sweet season of delight,
What beauties charm the wond’ring sight
In thy enchanting reign!
How fresh descends the morning dew,
Whilst op’ning flow’rs of various hue
Bedeck the sprightly plain.
The artless warblers of the grove
Again unite in songs of love,
To bless thy kind return:
But first the lark, who roaring seems
To hail the orb of day, whose beams
With fresh refulgence burn.
The limpid brook that purls along,
The tuneful blackbird’s joyous song,
The softly-whisp’ring breeze;
The mossy hills, which now invite,
These with the verdant meads unite,
Th’ elated mind to please.
The mind with thoughts of good possest,
With innocence and virtue blest,
Untaught in vice’s ways;
May taste those joys by nature giv’n,
May lift th’ enraptur’d eye to heav’n,
And their great Author praise.
Stern Winter’s gloomy season past,
We see fair Spring advances fast,
With Summer in the rear;
Soon Autumn’s shades will interpose,
And a succeeding Winter close
The swift-revolving year.
Of human life an emblem true,
The early morn of youth we view,
In Spring’s delightful face;
Meridian life’s a Summer’s day,
With Autumn fades; its quick decay,
In winter’s blast we trace.
Then let us prize each fleeting hour,
Improve the moments in our pow’r,
E’er time shall cease to be;
Then shall our spirits, taking wing,
Be crown’d with an eternal Spring,
From Wint’ry storms set free.
— By Elizabeth Bentley
herry blossoms like gentle
rain falling on top of a white umbrella
carried by a little girl
running towards her mother
who lifts her up
kisses her on her peach
cheek and then they move
away towards an old temple
as i watch them
despite the cold air
my heart
begins to light
a fire
memories start to burn
like black and white pictures
on the trash
— By Suki Nakamura
hecity’s all a-shining
Beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind’s a-blowing,
The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
And falling one by one –
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time has begun.
I know the Bois is twinkling
In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean,
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And the leaves are growing green.
The sun’s gone in, the sparkle’s dead,
There falls a dash of rain,
But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
Beside her window-pane,
When it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time’s come again.
— By Sara Teasdale