med_cat: (Blue writing)

Mary Ursula Bethell

When you wrote your letter it was April,
And you were glad that it was spring weather,
And that the sun shone out in turn with showers of rain.

I write in waning May and it is autumn,
And I am glad that my chrysanthemums
Are tied up fast to strong posts,
So that the south winds cannot beat them down.
I am glad that they are tawny coloured,
And fiery in the low west evening light.
And I am glad that one bush warbler
Still sings in the honey-scented wattle . . .

But oh, we have remembering hearts,
And we say 'How green it was in such and such an April',
And 'Such and such an autumn was very golden',
And 'Everything is for a very short time'.
Poet's bio can be found here; she lived in New Zealand.
med_cat: (Spring tulips)
The Bee In Church

The nestling church at Ovingdean
Was fragrant as a hive in May;
And there was nobody within
To preach, or praise, or pray.

The sunlight slanted through the door,
And through the panes of painted glass,
When I stole in, alone once more
To feel the ages pass.

Then, through the dim grey hush there droned
An echoing plain-song on the air,
As if some ghostly priest intoned
An old Gregorian there.

Saint Chrysostom could never lend
More honey to the heavenly Spring
Than seemed to murmur and ascend
On that invisible wing.

So small he was, I scarce could see
My girdled brown hierophant;
But only a Franciscan bee
In such a bass could chant.

His golden Latin rolled and boomed.
It swayed the altar-flowers anew,
Till all that hive of worship bloomed
With dreams of sun and dew.

Ah, sweet Franciscan of the May,
Dear chaplain of the fairy queen,
You sent a singing heart away
That day, from Ovingdean.

by Alfred Noyes

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at Alfred Noyes, 'The Bee In Church'

med_cat: (cat in dress)
May and the Poets

There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books:--
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
May's at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.

By James Leigh Hunt

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at James Leigh Hunt, 'May and the Poets'
med_cat: (Spring tulips)
The Dance Before The Arch

Windy April night-mist swept the Square ;
Lights among the leafage swayed and flashed;
Piquant bosky odors filled the air,
Piquant as a Maenad's flying hair
Late the dripping dogwood buds had lashed.
Then three fared forth together:
A wise old teacher of men,
A poet who laughed with the weather,
And a silent knight of the pen.
They walked in the rain-witched park
While the hours grew small and dark,
And their talk was light as a feather
That Bacchus blows at a mark.

All around, the city-sounds were whist ;
All about, where branches laughed and leapt,
Glints of eyes looked out into the mist,
Little, golden, dancing, rainbow-kissed :
Little shapes and shadows flashed and crept.
Then the sage: "O wonderful weather!
Strange, eerie!" Then he of the pen:
"The pixies are out all together :
Valpurgis Nacht — Bacchus — Amen !"
He waved his arms and inclined
His face to the night, joy-blind.
Then the poet : "Oh, pluck me a feather
From the stretched gray wing of the wind !"

Over asphalt polished by the rain,
Out of mist-swirls iris-splotched with light,
Loomed a sudden beauty, marble, plain,
Arched and sombre, fronting with disdain
All the springtime turmoil of that night.
Then the sage: "The old Arch, in this weather,
Needs garlands." Then he of the pen :
"The lost Roman thing! All together!
Get branches — we're Romans again!"
So they took each boughs in their hands,
Obeying the ancient commands,
When laurel put forth a green feather
And Proserpine gathered her bands.

They marched in a grave, wild measure, )

By Allan Updegraff

Originally posted by [ profile] duathir at Allan Updegraff, 'The Dance Before The Arch'--many thanks!
med_cat: (Spring tulips)

Originally posted by [ profile] levkonoe at Маслова Илона
Автор картины - в заголовке, при копировании просьба указывать автора!


  Утро. Станция. Знакомый

   С детских лет телеграфист.

   От сирени дух истомный.

   Воздух нежен. Воздух чист.

Morning. A railways station. A telegraph operator
Whom one has known since childhood.
A heady aroma issuing from the lilacs.
The air is tender. The air is pure.

   В небе легкой акварели

   Полутон и полудым.

   Хорошо любить в апреле,

   Хорошо быть молодым.

In the sky there is a half-tone
And half-smoke of pale watercolor.
It is good to love in April,
It is good to be young.
Read more... )
med_cat: (cat in dress)

Quite a few of these rather interesting trees, blooming pinkish-purple, in our area (and not only in ours, the video is from Greece, I believe)
As you can see in the close-up photo, the flowers are right on the branches...

med_cat: (Spring tulips)

(unless anybody here can read what it says, on the left-hand side?)

reposted from [ profile] levkonoe--many thanks!
med_cat: (Spring tulips)
“April 5, 1974″
Richard Wilbur

The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In the dull pasture where I strolled
Was something I could not believe.
Dead grass appeared to slide and heave,
Though still too frozen-flat to stir,
And rocks to twitch and all to blur.
What was this rippling of the land?
Was matter getting out of hand
And making free with natural law,
I stopped and blinked, and then I saw
A fact as eerie as a dream.
There was a subtle flood of steam
Moving upon the face of things.
It came from standing pools and springs
And what of snow was still around;
It came of winter’s giving ground
So that the freeze was coming out,
As when a set mind, blessed by doubt,
Relaxes into mother-wit.
Flowers, I said, will come of it.

Originally posted by [ profile] exceptindreams at April 5, 1974 | Richard Wilbur
med_cat: (Spring tulips)
Originally posted by [ profile] levkonoe at А не соскучились ли мы по Kojima нашему Koukei ?

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This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. Please comment ТАМ.
med_cat: (Spring tulips)
Originally posted by [ profile] levkonoe at Княгницкий Владимир.

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This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. Please comment ТАМ.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [ profile] levkonoe at Э.Колесникова

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This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. Please comment ТАМ.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [ profile] levkonoe at Beth Hoselton

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This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. Please comment ТАМ.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
...Rather early this year...

Smile ;)

Feb. 22nd, 2017 06:13 am
med_cat: (cat in dress)

(Artwork by Millicent Sowerby)
med_cat: (cat in dress)

Nov 17

Just strolling along the beach with some baby wombats - no biggie! More Fan Photos here (Photo: )

Spring Song

Apr. 5th, 2016 05:48 am
med_cat: (Spring garden)

Spring Song

A blue–bell springs upon the ledge,
A lark sits singing in the hedge;
Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
And life is brimming everywhere.
What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,

Is Spring, Spring, Spring!
No more the air is sharp and cold;
The planter wends across the wold,
And, glad, beneath the shining sky
We wander forth, my love and I.
And ever in our hearts doth ring

This song of Spring, Spring!
For life is life and love is love,
‘Twixt maid and man or dove and dove.
Life may be short, life may be long,
But love will come, and to its song
Shall this refrain for ever cling

Of Spring, Spring, Spring!

The Lapse

May. 23rd, 2015 07:29 am
med_cat: (cat in dress)
This poem must be done to-day;
Then, I 'll e'en to it.
I must not dream my time away,--
I 'm sure to rue it.
The day is rather bright, I know
The Muse will pardon
My half-defection, if I go
Into the garden.
It must be better working there,--
I 'm sure it's sweeter:
And something in the balmy air
May clear my metre.

In the garden: )

"May Day"

May. 1st, 2015 06:00 am
med_cat: (Spring garden)

May Day
Sarah Teasdale

A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Is everywhere.

Red small leaves of the maple
Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
The pear trees stand.

Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;

For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?

This poem is in the public domain.

Sara Teasdale (1884 - 1933) was a Missouri-born poet afflicted with poor health from birth. She loved one man but married another, divorced, lost her best friend to suicide, and eventually committed suicide herself. Ironically, a majority of her poems are about love and beauty, and she won the first Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1918. There are some similarities to be drawn between Sara and Emily Dickinson; both were reclusive, both wrote intensely personal poetry that frequently focused on nature, both knew unrequited love.


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October 2017

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