Spring Poem by Albert Pike

O, thou delicious Spring!
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,
Raining from clouds exhaled from dews that cling
To odorous beds of rare and fragrant flowers,
And honeysuckle bowers,
That over grassy walks their tendrils fling:
Come, gentle spring!

Thou lover of soft winds!
That wander from the invisible upper sea
Whose foam the clouds are, when young May unbinds
Her dewey hair, and with sweet sympathy
Makes crisp leaves dance with glee,
Even in the teeth of that old sober hind,
Winter unkind.

Come to us! for thou art
Like the pure love of children, gentle Spring,
Filling with delicate pleasure the lone heart;
Or like a modest virgin's welcoming;
And thou dost bring
Fair skies, soft breezes, bees upon the wing,
Low murmuring.

Red Autumn, from the South,
Contends with thee. What beauty can he show?
What are his purple-stained and rosy mouth,
And nut-brown cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow,
And exquisite fresh glow,
Thy timid flowers, in their sweet virgin growth
And modest youth?

Hale Summer follows thee,
But not with beauty delicate as thine;—
All things that live rejoice thy face to see;
But when he comes, they pant for heat, and pine
For Arctic ice, and wine
Thick-frozen, sipped under a shady tree,—
With dreams of thee.

Come, sit upon our hills,
Wake the chilled brooks, and send them down their side,
To make the valleys smile with sparkling rills;
And when the stars into their places glide,
And Dian sits in pride,
I, too, will breathe thine influence that thrills
The grassy hills.

Alas! sweet Spring!—not long
Wilt thou remain, lament thee as we may;
For as rude Summer waxes stout and strong,
Thou wilt grow thin and pale, and fade away
As dreams flit, scared at day;
Thou wilt no more to us or earth belong,
Except in song.
So I, who sing, shall die,
Worn thin and pale, perhaps, by care and sorrow;
And, fainting, with a soft, unconscious sigh,
Bid unto this poor body that I borrow,
A long good-by,—to-morrow
To enjoy, I hope, eternal Spring on high,
Beyond the sky.