06 November 2013

Spring - An 1866 Poem

By Lizzie G. Beere.
Have you heard the wondrous story
That the birds are singing over?
How the Spring is in the meadows,
Calling the grass and clover :
How the sunshine of her presence
Gilds the window's yellow tresses;
How the flower roots feel her footsteps,
And press up for her caresses;
How she flutters thro' the forest,
Where the frown of winter lingers,
And her dainty robes are prisoned
By the mosses' clinging fingers :
How she wonders on the hillside,
How she lingers, how she loiters
In the cresses by the brooklet,
Tuning all its little waters :
Till they tinkle o'er the pebbles,
Chiming, though so small and lowly,
With the far-off glorious voices
Of the angels, high and holy.
Oh, the wondrous, wondrous story,
Never common for the telling
By the silver-throated song-bird,
In the love-light of his dwelling.
Oh, the wondrous, wondrous story!
But amid its joy and gladness
We are ever list'ning
To some minor note of sadness.
Oh, sweet Spring, bend nearer, nearer,
And your sunshine o'er us flinging,
Till our hearts are bright and loving,
Till they join the angels singing.
May 5, 1866. Ashtabula Weekly Telegraph 17(18): 1. From the Western Reserve Chronicle.