The "Bull Spring."

When the burning sun of Summer shines from out a brassy sky,
And has parched and browned the meadows, and the creek's run dry,
O sweet it is to wander there and hear the water sing
It's rippling song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

Since Logan and the pioneers first stood upon its bank,
And heard it gurgle from the rock, and of its waters drank,
With ceaseless music in its flow, like silvery chimes that ring,
Has been the song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

Around about the fields and woods of old "Magnolia" spread--
Indigenous to "tansy"--"mint"--and the lithe-limbed thoroughbred;
And far above, on drowsy wing, the crow seems listening
To the rippling song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

No music that I've ever heard seems half so soft and sweet
As that in silvery tones it makes while flowing at your feet;
And sometimes when I'm far away I'd give most anything
To hear the song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

'Tis then that fancy wanders, and I sit and fondly dream
That I'm gazing in its liquid depths and see the pebbles gleam,
As when in happy childhood, and free from sorrow's sting,
I heard the song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

And I sniff again the flavor of the aromatic breeze
From the mint-bed and the tansy, as it floated through the trees,
And hear music mingle of the birds upon the wing
With the laughing song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

George W. Doneghy

No biography available

George W. Doneghy

Tim Bluster's Dream.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

A Summer Evening.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

General John B. Gordon.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

"Restland."

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Old Spring

I

Under rocks whereon the rose
Like a streak of morning glows;
Where the azure-throated newt
Drowses on the twisted root;
And the brown bees, humming homeward,
Stop to suck the honeydew;
Fern- and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward,
Drips the wildwood spring I knew,
Drips the spring my boyhood knew.

II

Myrrh and music everywhere
Haunt its cascades - like the hair
That a Naiad tosses cool,
Swimming strangely beautiful,
With white fragrance for her bosom,
And her mouth a breath of song -
Under leaf and branch and blossom
Flows the woodland spring along,
Sparkling, singing flows along.

III

Still the wet wan mornings touch
Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such
Slender stars as dusk may have
Pierce the ros...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Old Spring

I.

Under rocks whereon the rose
Like a strip of morning glows;
Where the azure-throated newt
Drowses on the twisted root;
And the brown bees, humming homeward,
Stop to suck the honey-dew;
Fern and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward,
Drips the wildwood spring I knew,
Drips the spring my boyhood knew.

II.

Myrrh and music everywhere
Haunt its cascades; like the hair
That a naiad tosses cool,
Swimming strangely beautiful,
With white fragrance for her bosom,
For her mouth a breath of song:
Under leaf and branch and blossom
Flows the woodland spring along,
Sparkling, singing flows along.

III.

Still the wet wan mornings touch
Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such
Slender stars as dusk may have
Pierce the ros...

Madison Julius Cawein

Happiness

There is a voice that calls to me; a voice that cries deep down;
That calls within my heart of hearts when Summer doffs her crown:
When Summer doffs her crown, my dear, and by the hills and streams
The spirit of September walks through gold and purple gleams:
It calls my heart beyond the mart, beyond the street and town,
To take again, in sun or rain, the oldtime trail of dreams.

Oh, it is long ago, my dear, a weary time since we
Trod back the way we used to know by wildwood rock and tree:
By mossy rock and tree, dear Heart, and sat below the hill,
And watched the wheel, the old mill-wheel, turn round on Babbit's mill:
Or in the brook, with line and hook, to dronings of the bee,
Waded or swam, above the dam, and drank of joy our fill

The ironweed is purple now; the bl...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Old Spring-House.

With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof--
('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)--
It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years
When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears;
And though far from it now, I can see it at will--
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn
Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return!
Which carry us back in visions and dreams
And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams--
Till we see once again, though with tears the eyes fill,
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play,
And wade in the branch that flowed on its way
Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet,
And a gurgle and ...

George W. Doneghy

A-Roving

When the sap runs up the tree.
And the vine runs oer the wall,
When the blossom draws the bee,
From the forest comes a call,
Wild, and clear, and sweet, and strange,
Many-tongued and murmuring
Like the river in the range,
Tis the joyous voice of Spring!

On the boles of grey, old trees,
See the flying sunbeams play
Mystic, soundless melodies,
A fantastic march and gay;
But the young leaves hear them, hark
How they rustle, every one!
And the sap beneath the bark
Hearing, leaps to meet the sun.

Oh, the world is wondrous fair
When the tide of lifes at flood!
There is magic in the air,
There is music in the blood;
And a glamour draws us on
To the distance, rainbow-spanned,
And the road we tread upon
Is the road to F...

Victor James Daley

An Ode To Spring (To Grant And Nellie Allen)

Is it the Spring?
    Or are the birds all wrong
That play on flute and viol,
    A thousand strong,
In minstrel galleries
    Of the long deep wood,
Epiphanies
    Of bloom and bud.

Grave minstrels those,
    Of deep responsive chant;
But see how yonder goes,
    Dew-drunk, with giddy slant,
Yon Shelley-lark,
    And hark!
Him on the giddy brink
    Of pearly heaven
His fairy anvil clink.

Or watch, in fancy,
    How the brimming note
Falls, like a string of pearls,
    From out his heavenly throat;
Or like a fountain
    In Hesperides,
Raining its silver rain,
    In gleam and chime,
On backs of ivory girls -
    Twice happy rhyme!

Ah, none of these
    May make it plain,
No im...

Richard Le Gallienne