The seasons are shifting, The winter shades lifting, The springtime is filling Earth's children with mirth. The daffodil yellow, The south wind so mellow, The gentle rain falling, Upon the green earth. The song sparrow singing, New life quickly springing, All nature is telling A tale of rebirth: The deep wells of being, Beyond each day's seeing, O'er flowing with new Life, Restoring the earth.
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Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball.
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Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feelings, reviews the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the springtime of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human mature, by vivid delineations of its tenderest and softest feelings, and through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life.
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Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed, The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
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Beauty is a form of genius--is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts in the world like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark water of that silver shell we call the moon.
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Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.
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