Spring of mine, O spring of mine so white,
as yet unlived, as yet unfeasted,
alone in visions vague yet dreamt of,
how low above the poplars do you skim,
yet without pausing in your flight.
Spring of mine, O spring of mine so white!
I know you'll come with rain and hurricanes,
stormy and terrible, fiery, riotous.
To bring back hopes in thousands, wash out bleeding wounds.
How loud the birds will sing then in the cornfields,
how merrily will soar up to the heav'ns,
how people will enjoy their work,
how lovingly as brothers will they live.
Spring of mine... O spring of mine so white!
O once again but let me see your soaring
and giving life to squares so desolate,
O once again but let me die then on your barricades!
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Comments about this poem (Spring by Nikola Vaptsarov )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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