It’s the first day of calendar Spring and the UK is in crisis. I’m not talking about Brexit, it is much more serious. We are in the grip of a visit from The Beast From The East. Schools have been closed, flights and train journeys cancelled and there have been reports of hand to hand fighting in supermarkets as traumatised Brits rush to stockpile food for the impending doom.
Although the slight covering of snow sitting on the grass outside of the Poetry Den have left me a little perplexed as to the hysteria, watching and listening to the news bulletins provides plenty of material for the poet. Which brings me to the focus for today’s Thursday Thoughts, Spring Poetry.
Spring provides so much for the poet to write about. The beautiful blooms of snowdrops set against dark soil, the gold tinge of daffodil stalks about to bloom; and the sudden change of pace of the Robins, Blackbirds and Thrush in preparation for the mating season.
There have been many wonderful poems written about Spring and I thought I would share one of mine, To Spring, by William Blake. I would love you to share your favourite Spring Poem (maybe one you have written yourself) in the comments section to this post. The beast is forecast to hit our village over the next few days and I might need some uplifting Spring poetry to raise my spirits. And to accompany having to break into the emergency rations of Malbec and chocolate.
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.