Spring
I love the spring.
For every day
There’s something new
That’s come to stay.
Another bud
Another bird
Another blade
The sun has stirred.
My Spring Garden
Here is my little garden,
Some seeds I’m
Going to sow.
Here is my rake
To rake the ground,
Here is my handy hoe.
Here is the big
Round yellow sun,
The sun warms everything.
Here are the rain clouds
In the sky,
The birds will start to sing.
Little plants will
Wake up soon,
And lift their sleepy heads.
Little plants will
Grow and grow
From their warm earth beds.
Spring Is Here
Spring is here,
In the air,
You can smell it coming,
On the trees,
Leaves are green,
Caterpillars sunning.
Birds are back,
Grass is out,
Busy bees are humming,
On the trees,
Leaves are green,
Caterpillars sunning.
Surprise
Close your eyes
And do not peek
And I’ll rub “spring”
Across your cheek.
Soft as velvet
Smooth and sleek
Close your eyes
And do not peek.
Springtime
A small green frog
On a big brown log;
A black and yellow bee
In a little green tree;
A red and yellow snake
By a blue-green lake,
All sat and listened
To red bird sing,
“Wake up, everybody,
It’s spring! It’s spring!”
What the Robin Told
The wind
told the grasses,
And the grasses
told the trees.
The trees
told the bushes,
And the bushes
told the bees.
The bees
told the robin,
And the robin
sang out clear:
Wake up!
Wake up!
Spring is here!
Little Mary
Little Mary was good;
The weather was fair;
She went with her mother
To taste the fresh air.
The birds they were singing;
Mary chatted away;
And she was as happy
And merry as they.
By Eliza Lee Follen |
May
May’s a month of happy sounds,
The hum of buzzing bees,
The chirp of little baby birds
And the song of a gentle breeze.
* * *
The grass is green.
Flower blossoms I have seen.
The days are warm.
By evening it cools.
It’s time to find the garden tools.
Spring
Spring makes the world a happy place
You see a smile on every face.
Flowers come out and birds arrive,
Oh, isn’t it grand to be alive?
Kite Flying
On many spring days I wish that I
Could be a kite flying in the sky.
I would climb high toward the sun
And chase the clouds.
Oh, what fun!
Whichever way the wind chanced to blow
Is the way that I would go.
I’d fly up, up, up.
I’d fly down, down, down.
Then I’d spin round and round and round.
Finally I’d float softly to the ground.
Young Lambs
The spring is coming by a many signs;
The trays are up, the hedges broken down
That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines
Like some old antique fragment weathered brown.
And where suns peep, in every sheltered place,
The little early buttercups unfold
A glittering star or two – till many trace
The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold.
And then a little lamb bolts up behind
The hill, and wags his tail to meet the yoe;
And then another, sheltered from the wind,
Lies all his length as dead – and lets me go
Close by, and never stirs, but basking lies,
With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.
By John Clare
Who Has Seen the Wind?
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.
By Christina G. Rossetti
Springtime
(to the tune of “The Muffin Man”)
Springtime is garden time,
Garden time, garden time,
Get your spades and come outdoors,
Springtime is here!
Springtime is planting time,
Planting time, planting time,
Get your seeds and come outdoors,
Springtime is here!
Springtime is jumping time,
Jumping time, jumping time,
Get your ropes and come outdoors,
Springtime is here!
Springtime is singing time,
Singing time, singing time,
Children sing a happy song,
Springtime is here!
A Child of Spring
I know a little maiden,
She is very fair and sweet,
As she trips among the grasses
That kiss her dainty feet;
Her arms are full of flowers,
The snow-drops, pure and white,
Timid blue-eyed violets,
And daffodillies bright.
She loves dear Mother Nature,
And wanders by her side;
She beckons to the birdlings
That flock from far and wide.
She wakes the baby brooklets,
Soft breezes hear her call;
She tells the little children
The sweetest tales of all.
Her brow is sometimes clouded,
And she sighs with gentle grace,
Till the sunbeams, daring lovers,
Kiss the teardrops from her face.
Well we know this dainty maiden,
For April is her name;
And we welcome her with gladness,
As the springtime comes again...
By Ellen Robena Field |