by
Conrad Aiken
Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,—
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.
There is an oriole who, upside down,
Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,—
Under a tree as dead and still as lead;
There is a single leaf, in all this heaven
Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:
The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught
Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;
There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom
Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.
The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly
Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock
Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail
Surveys the wet world from a watery stone...
And still the syllables of water whisper:
The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop,—on a hawthorn leaf,—
Orion in a cobweb, and the World.
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by
Du Fu
Heart at water essence land Clothes wet spring rain time Penetrate gate utmost walk slowly Large court really tranquil appointment Reach door open again close Hit bell vegetarian meal at here Cream enhance develop nature Diet give support decline Hold arm be many days Open heart without shame evasion Golden oriole pass structure Purple dove descend lattice screen Humble think reach place suit Flower beside go self slow Tangxiu raise me sickness Smile ask write poem My heart is in a world of water and crystal, My clothes are damp in this time of spring rains. Through the gates I slowly walk to the end, The great court the appointed tranquil space. I reach the doors- they open and shut again, Now strikes the bell- the meal time has arrived. This cream will help one's nature strengthen and grow, The diet gives support in my decline. We've grasped each other's arms so many days, And opened our hearts without shame or evasion. Golden orioles flit across the beams, Purple doves descend from lattice screens. Myself, I think I've found a place that suits, I walk by flowers at my own slow pace. Tangxiu lifts me from my sickly state, And smiling, asks me to write a poem.
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by
William Cullen Bryant
I GAZED upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground
'T were pleasant that in flowery June 5
When brooks send up a cheerful tune
And groves a joyous sound
The sexton's hand my grave to make
The rich green mountain-turf should break.
A cell within the frozen mould 10
A coffin borne through sleet
And icy clods above it rolled
While fierce the tempests beat¡ª
Away!¡ªI will not think of these¡ª
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze 15
Earth green beneath the feet
And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.
There through the long long summer hours
The golden light should lie 20
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly 25
Should rest him there and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming-bird.
And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come from the village sent
Or song of maids beneath the moon 30
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if in the evening light
Betroth¨¨d lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around 35
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know that I no more should see
The season's glorious show
Nor would its brightness shine for me
Nor its wild music flow; 40
But if around my place of sleep
The friends I love should come to weep
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs and song and light and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 45
These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills 50
The circuit of the summer hills
Is that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.
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by
W S Merwin
Out of the dry days
through the dusty leaves
far across the valley
those few notes never
heard here before
one fluted phrase
floating over its
wandering secret
all at once wells up
somewhere else
and is gone before it
goes on fallen into
its own echo leaving
a hollow through the air
that is dry as before
where is it from
hardly anyone
seems to have noticed it
so far but who now
would have been listening
it is not native here
that may be the one
thing we are sure of
it came from somewhere
else perhaps alone
so keeps on calling for
no one who is here
hoping to be heard
by another of its own
unlikely origin
trying once more the same few
notes that began the song
of an oriole last heard
years ago in another
existence there
it goes again tell
no one it is here
foreign as we are
who are filling the days
with a sound of our own
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by
Du Fu
Huangsi girl house flowers fill path Thousand blossom ten thousand blossom press branch low Reluctant to leave play butterfly constantly dance Free and unrestrained lovely oriole cry At Huang Si's house, flowers fill the path, Myriad blossoms press the branches low. Constantly dancing butterflies stay to play, Unrestrained, the lovely orioles cry.
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by
Henry Van Dyke
I
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
Why the sweet Spring delays,
And where she hides, -- the dear desire
Of every heart that longs
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire
Of maple-buds along the misty hills,
And that immortal call which fills
The waiting wood with songs?
The snow-drops came so long ago,
It seemed that Spring was near!
But then returned the snow
With biting winds, and all the earth grew sere,
And sullen clouds drooped low
To veil the sadness of a hope deferred:
Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
Beat on the window-pane,
Through which I watched the solitary bird
That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed,
With rumpled feathers, down the wind again.
Oh, were the seeds all lost
When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb?
I searched their haunts in vain
For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white,
And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight,
Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.
The woods were bare: and every night the frost
To all my longings spoke a silent nay,
And told me Spring was far and far away.
Even the robins were too cold to sing,
Except a broken and discouraged note, --
Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat
Music has put her triple finger-print,
Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint, --
"Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"
II
But now, Carina, what divine amends
For all delay! What sweetness treasured up,
What wine of joy that blends
A hundred flavours in a single cup,
Is poured into this perfect day!
For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers,
That lingered on their way,
Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May,
And mingled with the bloom of later hours, --
Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blue
And white, and iris richly gleaming through
The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze
Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,
Filling the air with praise,
As if a silver chime of bells had pealed!
The frozen songs within the breast
Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
Melt into rippling floods
Of gladness unrepressed.
Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark,
Warbler and wren and vireo,
Confuse their music; for the living spark
Of Love has touched the fuel of desire,
And every heart leaps up in singing fire.
It seems as if the land
Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress,
Trembling with tenderness,
While all the woods expand,
In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,
To veil the joys too sacred to be seen.
III
Come, put your hand in mine,
True love, long sought and found at last,
And lead me deep into the Spring divine
That makes amends for all the wintry past.
For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss
Arrive with you;
And in the lingering pressure of your kiss
My dreams come true;
And in the promise of your generous eyes
I read the mystic sign
Of joy more perfect made
Because so long delayed,
And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
Ah, think not early love alone is strong;
He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait:
Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,
You're doubly dear because you come so late.
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by
Emily Dickinson
One of the ones that Midas touched
Who failed to touch us all
Was that confiding Prodigal
The reeling Oriole --
So drunk he disavows it
With badinage divine --
So dazzling we mistake him
For an alighting Mine --
A Pleader -- a Dissembler --
An Epicure -- a Thief --
Betimes an Oratorio --
An Ecstasy in chief --
The Jesuit of Orchards
He cheats as he enchants
Of an entire Attar
For his decamping wants --
The splendor of a Burmah
The Meteor of Birds,
Departing like a Pageant
Of Ballads and of Bards --
I never thought that Jason sought
For any Golden Fleece
But then I am a rural man
With thoughts that make for Peace --
But if there were a Jason,
Tradition bear with me
Behold his lost Aggrandizement
Upon the Apple Tree --
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by
Paul Laurence Dunbar
The Oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.
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by
Carl Sandburg
IF the oriole calls like last year
when the south wind sings in the oats,
if the leaves climb and climb on a bean pole
saying over a song learnt from the south wind,
if the crickets send up the same old lessons
found when the south wind keeps on coming,
we will get by, we will keep on coming,
we will get by, we will come along,
we will fix our hearts over,
the south wind says so.
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by
Emily Dickinson
To hear an Oriole sing
May be a common thing --
Or only a divine.
It is not of the Bird
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto Crowd --
The Fashion of the Ear
Attireth that it hear
In Dun, or fair --
So whether it be Rune,
Or whether it be none
Is of within.
The "Tune is in the Tree --"
The Skeptic -- showeth me --
"No Sir! In Thee!"
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