The Glamorgan Gazette/11 May 1894/Ode to Spring

by George Howell-Baker

Ode to Spring.

Oh! Spring thou art constant and ever true,
For ever ready when thou art due;
Oh! Spring how can I show to thee
The homage of thy devotee.
I hear thy voice for 'tis the cuckoo's notes,
And thy breath the flowry fragrance
Of many a gentle blossom that floats
In your gorgeous presence;
Oh! sweetest month of all the twelve
I hail thee Venus, you've come at last
And writer's vow: but of the past
You're driven these tokens far away
Like a ship before the blast.
The birds their brightest plumage don
To give thee welcome and a greet,
Whilst feathery songsters sing their best
A tuneful lay; and for to meet
Thy pretty daughter the month of May—
What sparkling gem of rarity
Or pearls and stones of purity
Can match thy gems; the flowers that grow
Upon the meadows that plainly show
The way that thou hast passed.
The fairest gems are thine fair spring,
And nothing could I to thee bring
To match an empire's gifts like thine;
In the humblest homage at thy shrine
'Twould surely be a mockery.
The swallows come, the lambs they play,
And the butterfly flits in thy sunny ray,
Oh, goddess fair! is not thy presence
But a heavenly music and a flowery essence?
Oh, spring, it would be death to me
To part with the flower or the bee!
Oh! were I a flower my pedals I'd display
To welcome you, thou mouth of May;
Or if a bird I'd sing that lay
To match the brightest day in May,
And at sinking sun I'd end my theme,
And leave to the splashing stream
That blends its ripples a springtime tale
With the sweetest song of the nightingale.
Could I but a tribute of goodness bring
To thee thou heir and joy of spring,
My song would be but a distant echo,
My handywork be but a shadow,
Oh thy inheritance!
For the beauty of the rippling stream
Is seen to be thy reflection,
And the beauty of the bright sunbean
Is to shine in thy direction;
And when night comes on the moon doth shine
To guide the foot and still show what's thine
That grow along the wayside way,
For partly they make the month of May.
Accept this poor and shallow rhyme fair spring,
Tis all, tis all that I can bring.

G. H. Rekab