Favourite Poems XXXIII

Three short poems with divers themes on Eliot’s cruellest month.

Always Marry an April Girl

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true —
I love April, I love you.

— Ogden Nash

***         ***          ***          ***          ***

An April Night

The moon comes up o’er the deeps of the woods,
And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,
Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds
Over the pools and the whimpering rills;

And with her the mists, like dryads that creep
From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,
Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,
With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.

Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow
Wanders Will-o’-the-Wisp through the night,
Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago
By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.

The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,
Akin to all eerie and elfin things,
Who weaves about us in meadow and mere
The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.

— Lucy Maud Montgomery

***         ***          ***          ***          ***

April Is The Saddest Month

There they were
stuck
dog and bitch
halving the compass

Then when with his yip
they parted
oh how frolicsome

she grew before him
playful
dancing and
how disconsolate

he retreated
hang-dog
she following
through the shrubbery

— William Carlos Williams

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  1. #1 by Leigh on Saturday 02 April 2011 - 1227

    And one more..
    Home Thoughts from Abroad

    Robert Browning (1812–89)

    I
    OH, to be in England now that April ’s there
    And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,
    That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
    Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
    While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 5
    In England—now!

    II
    And after April, when May follows
    And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
    Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge
    Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 10
    Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
    That ’s the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over
    Lest you should think he never could re-capture
    The first fine careless rapture!
    And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 15
    All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
    The buttercups, the little children’s dower,
    Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

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