Spring Poetry

When I was a shy liberal arts student at Duquesne University, I lived in the ivory tower world of English Romantic poets like William Wordsworth, memorizing and reciting many of his poems, especially I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud and Lines Written In Early Spring. In these works, he praised the budding daffodils, the gentle breezes, and the green bowers of the coming springtime.

Though I can never hope to capture the allure of spring the way Wordsworth did, in my own humble way I tried to evoke the magic of nature’s rebirth and dreamy romance in these two poems.


Another Spring

This wind that blows,

These clouds that pass,

And this stirring in the soul

Are the fruits of patience—they are spring.

This gentle excitement,

This unaccustomed warmth,

And these memories of youth

Are seeds of expectation—they are spring.

This wandering state of mind,

This passive submission,

And this feeling of awakening into a dream

Are here and gone—they are spring.


Climb the Golden Hill

Climb the golden hill

to the stream at the old sawmill.

And there she will be found

watching that wheel go around.

And dreaming the wildest dreams

of a young girl’s fancy.

And wearing the princess gold,

never believing that someday she’ll be old.

Climb the golden hill

to the place where the daffodils

Run along the stream

in an endless dream.

There she will be found

Watching that wheel go around.

Dreaming the wildest dreams

that any young girl could imagine.