Spring poems
To help celebrate spring, the interns are taking over the website for the week and sharing some poems that relate to the season. Today’s poems were selected by Johnna Ryan.
"Sonnet XXI: Say Over Again" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
Cry, Speak once more—thou lovest! Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll
The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning is my favorite Victorian author, and her Sonnets from the Portuguese are a lovely blend of elegance and romance. In “Sonnet XXI,” that romance is paired with rebirth of spring, demonstrating the blossoming of her love for both, the first time—yet also endlessly.
"The Owl and the Pussy-Cat" by Edward Lear
I.
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
II.
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
I had to choose one piece of nonsense poetry, as it is my favorite subgenre, and “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat” was a classic choice. Lear’s animal characters are so bright and unique, they breathe life into the poem itself, just as spring breathes life back into the world after winter!
"To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" by Robert Herrick
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
Robert Herrick’s “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time” is a thoughtful poem, and one that reminds me of the bittersweet passing of time. The passage of time is only the setting that allows for bliss, joy, and union as long as life goes on. To me, that is the picture of spring: coming back year after year with flowers, sunshine, and an ongoing brightness within for the world.
"Infant Joy" by William Blake
I have no name
I am but two days old.—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,—
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile.
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.
“Infant Sorrow” by William Blake
My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.
These two final poems are the inverse of each other in William Blake’s collection, focusing on innocence and experience. As spring is a time of rebirth (and my own birthday), I think these poems on joy and sadness as a real representation of life, in its brightest and darkest moments. Yet here is joyful spring, rising from the darkest season!
