They're Coming!

They're coming! And it seems so long
Since sadly autumn laid them low.
They left us with the robin's song,
They left us to the ice and snow.

They're coming! So the March wind saith.
Though singing songs with icy breath,
He's chanting of another May,
He's chanting of King Winter's death.

They're coming! 'Neath the forest's mold,
In mossy beds of ferny soil,
Slowly their tiny robes unfold,
Yet do they neither spin nor toil.

They're coming! With their influence pure,
Their emblematic power again
Of him who would our steps allure
To realms of love, devoid of pain.

They're coming! With the summer's breeze,
With azure skies and sunny showers,
With notes of birds and hum of bees
Who will not welcome back the flowers?

Nancy Campbell Glass

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Nancy Campbell Glass

The Migratory Swans

Nancy Campbell Glass, Simple Poetry

Awake!

Nancy Campbell Glass, Simple Poetry

Eve's Flowers

Nancy Campbell Glass, Simple Poetry

English

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April

When April weeps, she wakes the flowers
That slept the winter through.
Oh, did they dream those frosty hours
That she would be untrue
And not awaken them in time
To smile their smiles of love,
To hear the robin's merry chime,
And gentle cooing dove?

And when they feel their mother's tears
So gently o'er them weep,
Will they tell her of their simple fears
And visions while asleep?
And will they tell her that they dreamed,
Beneath their sheets of snow,
Such weary dreamings that it seemed
The winter ne'er would go?

They'll soon be wide-awake and up,
In dainty robes arrayed,
Blue violet, gold buttercup,
And quaker-lady staid.
Wild eglantine and clustering thorn
Will grace the byway lanes,
Whilst woodland flowers the dells ...

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O Come To The Meadows.

O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
    Primrose and violet blow,
And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,
    White as the driven snow.
I'll show you where the daisies dot
    With silver stars the lea,
The orchis, and forget-me-not,
    The flower of memory!

The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,
    That love the river's side,
The reed that bows the wave to meet,
    And sighs above the tide.
The stately flag that gaily rears
    Aloft its yellow crest,
The lily in whose cup the tears
    Of morn delight to rest.

The first in Nature's dainty wreath,
    We'll cull the brier-rose,
The crowfoot and the purple heath,
    And pink that sweetly blows.
The hare-bell with its airy flowers
    Shall deck my Laura's breast,...

Susanna Moodie

Autumn Winds.

"Oh! Autumn winds, what means this plaintive wailing
    Around the quiet homestead where we dwell?
Whence come ye, say, and what the story mournful
    That your weird voices ever seek to tell -
Whispering or clamoring, beneath the casements,
    Rising in shriek or dying off in moan,
But ever breathing, menace, fear, or anguish
    In every thrilling and unearthly tone?"

"We come from far off and from storm-tossed oceans,
    Where vessels bravely battle with fierce gale, -
Mere playthings of our stormy, restless power,
    We rend them quickly, shuddering mast and sail;
And with their, stalwart, gallant crews we hurl them
    Amid the hungry waves that for them wait,
Nor leave one floating spar nor fragile taffrail
    To tell unto the world their dreary f...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Snow-Drops

Dimly and dumbly under the ground,
Groping the walls of their prison round,
The roots of the aged and garrulous trees
Are sending electrical messages
    From the under-world to the world without
And quickening pulses that course in each
    Fettered and bound and frozen thing,
Rootlets that tremble, and fibres that reach
    Are pushing inanimate fingers out,
To ask further inarticulate speech
        For tidings of Spring

And the fine invisible sprite which dwells
In cups and discs, in blossoms and bells,
Fleeter than Ariel's wing hath flown
Beyond this cloudy and frozen zone,
    To the summer land of the South,
Beyond those rugged sentinels
Which winter seta in the snow-capped hills,
    From the breath of whose cruel mouth,
Sighing, t...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Catkins

I.

Misty are the far-off hills
And misty are the near;
Purple hazes dimly lie
Veiling hill and field and sky,
Marshes where the hylas cry,
Like a myriad bills
Piping, "Spring is here!"

II.

A redbird flits,
Then sings and sits
And calls to his mate,
"She is late! she is late!
How long, how long must the woodland wait
For its emerald plumes
And its jewelled blooms?
She is late! she is late!"

III.

Along the stream,
A cloudy gleam,
The pussy-willows, tufted white,
Make of each tree a mighty light;
Pearl and silver and glimmering gray
They tassel the boughs of the willow way;
And as they swing they seem to say,
With mouths of bloom
And warm perfume:

IV.

"Awake! awa...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Crow

Hail, little herald! - Art thou then returning
From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day?
Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,
That spring is on the way?
Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,

From hill tops crested with untarnished snow;
The trumpet notes are drifting - floating - falling -
Whene'er the breezes blow!

"Winter is over, and the spring is coming!"
Glad is thy message, little page in black -
"Winter is over, and the spring is coming -
The spring is coming back!"

Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather,
Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring? -
Didst note each passing mood of wind and weather,
While flying to the North on buoyant wing?

Or didst thou rest upon the bare brown branche...

Virna Sheard