Let Your Love of Poetry Bloom: 3 Poems about Spring

It’s spring, a season of hope and renewal! Celebrate spring with these three poems about the beauty of the season.

“Flower God, God of the Spring” by Robert Louis Stevenson

Flower god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,

Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,

Here I wander in April

Cold, grey-headed; and still to my

Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer,

Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant;

Spring, flower-planter in meadows,

Child-conductor in willowy

Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses:

Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity:

O child, happy are children!

She still smiles on their innocence,

She, dear mother in God, fostering violets,

Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins:

Thus one cunning in music

Wakes old chords in the memory:

Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances.

One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal

Green – one more, and my bosom

Feels new life with an ecstasy.

 

“O Were my Love yon Lilac Fair” by Robert Burns

O were my Love yon lilac fair,

Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring,

And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing;

How I wad mourn when it was torn

By autumn wild and winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.

 

O gin my Love were yon red rose

That grows upon the castle wa’,

And I mysel a drap o’ dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa’;

O there, beyond expression blest,

I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;

Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,

Till fley’d awa’ by Phoebus’ light.

 

“More Than Enough by Marge Piercy”

The first lily of June opens its red mouth.

All over the sand road where we walk

multiflora rose climbs trees cascading

white or pink blossoms, simple, intense

the scene drifting like colored mist.

 

The arrowhead is spreading its creamy

clumps of flower and the blackberries

are blooming in the thickets. Season of

joy for the bee. The green will never

again be so green, so purely and lushly

 

new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads

into the wind. Rich fresh wine

of June, we stagger into you smeared

with pollen, overcome as the turtle

laying her eggs in roadside sand.

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