Poems (Procter)/Spring
For works with similar titles, see Spring.
SPRING.
ARK! the hours are softly calling Bidding Spring arise,To listen to the rain-drops falling From the cloudy skies,To listen to Earth's weary voices, Louder every day,Bidding her no longer linger On her charmèd 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 snowdrops' 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 dew-drops 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, Checkered 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, O Spring! nor linger On thy charmed way;Have pity on thy prisoned flowers Wearying for the day.Listen to the rain-drops falling From the cloudy skies;Listen to the hours calling, Bidding thee arise.