The Starlings

Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,
Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing -
'Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily?
    Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.'

Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,
Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing -
'Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily;
    Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.'

Eversley, 1848.

Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley was an English writer, historian, and clergyman born on June 12, 1819, in Holne, Devon. He was associated with the Christian Socialist movement and was a friend of prominent figures such as Charles Darwin. Kingsley is best known for his historical novels, including 'Westward Ho!' and 'Hypatia,' as well as his children's book 'The Water-Babies.' His works often explore social issues and aim to contribute to societal reform. Kingsley died on January 23, 1875, in Eversley, Hampshire.

Charles Kingsley

Qu'Est Qu'Il Dit [1]

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

Old And New: A Parable

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

The Outlaw

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

Airly Beacon

Charles Kingsley, 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.

A Lament

The merry merry lark was up and singing,
    And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,
    When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
    And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
    Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.

Eversley, 1848.

Charles Kingsley

The Wren.

Early each spring the little wren
    Came scolding to his nest of moss;
We knew him by his peevish cry,
    He always sung so very cross.
His quiet little mate would lay
Her eggs in peace, and think all day.

He was a sturdy little wren;
    And when he came in spring, we knew,
Or seemed to know, the flowers would grow
    To please him, where they always grew,
Among the rushes, cheerfully;
But not a rush so straight as he!

All summer long that little wren
    Would chatter like a saucy thing;
And in the bush attack the thrush
    That on the hawthorn perched to sing.
Like many noisy little men,
Lived, bragged, and fought that little wren.

There was a thoughtful maid, and I,
    We used to play along the shore,
Searching f...

Charles Sangster

In The Quiet Days - An Old-Year Song

As through the forest, disarrayed
By chill November, late I strayed,
A lonely minstrel of the wood
Was singing to the solitude
I loved thy music, thus I said,
When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread
Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now
Thy carol on the leafless bough.
Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer
The sadness of the dying year.

When violets pranked the turf with blue
And morning filled their cups with dew,
Thy slender voice with rippling trill
The budding April bowers would fill,
Nor passed its joyous tones away
When April rounded into May:
Thy life shall hail no second dawn, -
Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.

And I remember - well-a-day! -
Thy full-blown summer roundelay,
As when behind a broidered screen

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Spring, My Dear

The spring, my dear,
Is no longer spring.
Does the blackbird sing
What he sang last year?
Are the skies the old
Immemorial blue?
Or am I, or are you,
Grown cold?

Though life be change,
It is hard to bear
When the old sweet air
Sounds forced and strange.
To be out of tune,
Plain You and I . . .
It were better to die,
And soon!

William Ernest Henley

A March

    Dreary East winds howling o'er us;
    Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us;
    Mire and ice and snow and sleet;
    Aching backs and frozen feet;
    Knees which reel as marches quicken,
    Ranks which thin as corpses thicken;
    While with carrion birds we eat,
    Calling puddle-water sweet,
As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we:
What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?

Eversley, 1848.

Charles Kingsley

Returned Birds

My heart to-day is like a southern wood,
    Through summer months it has been drunk with heat;
    And slumbered on unmindful of the beat
Of life beyond it: sleep alone seemed good.

Now milder Autumn's tints are in the sky;
    The fervid heats of summer noons depart;
    And backward to the old haunts in my heart
The golden robins and the blue birds fly.

I hear the flutter of their airy wings,
    They flock about the Spring's deserted nest,
    And suddenly I feel within my breast
The stirring of sweet half-forgotten things.

Bright sunny mornings -golden growing hours -
    The building of glad birds among the trees;
    Wide open windows and the kindly breeze
Bringing the perfume of half-open flowers.

A blithe face at the window fai...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox