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.