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Title: Spring
Author: Adelaide Anne Procter [
More Titles by Procter]
Hark! the Hours are softly calling,
Bidding Spring arise,
To listen to the raindrops falling
From the cloudy skies,
To listen to Earth's weary voices,
Louder every day,
Bidding her no longer linger
On her charmed way;
But hasten to her task of beauty
Scarcely yet begun;
By the first bright day of summer
It should all be done.
She has yet to loose the fountain
From its iron chain;
And to make the barren mountain
Green and bright again;
She must clear the snow that lingers
Round the stalks away
And let the snowdrop's trembling whiteness
See the light of day.
She must watch, and warm, and cherish
Every blade of green;
Till the tender grass appearing
From the earth is seen;
She must bring the golden crocus
From her hidden store;
She must spread broad showers of daisies
Each day more and more.
In each hedgerow she must hasten
Cowslips sweet to set;
Primroses in rich profusion,
With bright dewdrops wet,
And under every leaf, in shadow
Hide a Violet!
Every tree within the forest
Must be decked anew
And the tender buds of promise
Should be peeping through,
Folded deep, and almost hidden,
Leaf by leaf beside,
What will make the Summer's glory,
And the Autumn's pride.
She must weave the loveliest carpets,
Chequered sun and shade,
Every wood must have such pathways
Laid in every glade;
She must hang laburnum branches
On each arched bough;--
And the white and purple lilac
Should be waving now;
She must breathe, and cold winds vanish
At her breath away;
And then load the air around her
With the scent of May!
Listen then, Oh Spring! nor linger
On thy charmed way;
Have pity on thy prisoned flowers
Wearying for the day.
Listen to the raindrops falling
From the cloudy skies;
Listen to the hours calling
Bidding thee arise.
[The end]
Adelaide Anne Procter's poem: Spring
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