Classic Poem

Spring comes to town like some mad girl, who runs
With silver feet upon the Avenue,
And, like Ophelia, in her tresses twines
The first young blossoms—purple violets
And golden daffodils. These are enough—
These fragile handfuls of miraculous bloom—
To make the monster City feel the Spring!
One dash of color on her dun-gray hood,
One flash of yellow near her pallid face,
And she and April are the best of friends—
Benighted town that needs a friend so much!
How she responds to that first soft caress,
And draws the hoyden Spring close to her heart,
And thrills and sings, and for one little time
Forgets the foolish panic of her sons,
Forgets her sordid merchandise and trade,
And lightly trips, while hurdy-gurdies ring—
A wise old crone upon a holiday!

No Spring in any wildwood is like this!
The meadows take young April as they take
The dawn or sunset; gladly, it is true,
But without any festival at all.
Why! Spring's as common there as if she came
Each day, each hour! Why make a gala time?
Just let her in, invite her to sit down,
And that's sufficient!
But the Spring in town
Meets with a royal welcome that a queen
Might envy all her days. You never knew
Such preparations for one pretty girl!
The vendors herald her with lovely names—
“Lilacs!” and “Tulips!”—yes, and “Mignonette!”
And “Daffydowndillies!”—who has ever heard
A prettier word upon the human tongue?
And in the parks are spread, in proper rows,
Like Raleigh's coat, for her light feet to tread,
Carpets of green and purple, white and pink.—
Magic designs that flash to sudden life
When April's footfall sounds along the street.

The children hear her first—(they have a way
Of hearing delicate noises), and they fare
To those green islands mercifully set
In the wide City's everlasting sea.
They laugh when first the tulips lift their cups
To the blue sky; and when the crocuses
Hold up to heaven their chalices of dew,
They know that Spring has definitely come,
All madness, fragrance, carnival and joy.
Old men renew, for this blithe maiden's sake,
Their vanished youth; and the sad poor come out
To hear her laughter, flinging back at her
Their joyless mirth, repressed and hidden long.
Their tenements are caves of darkness, filled
With horrible air that leads to but one doom.
How wonderful to them the breath of Spring,
The first clear patch of blue above their heads,
The primal tide of warmth through alleys dim
And sick with old remembrance of brief days
Crowded with cold and pain and poverty!
April, your shining feet are needed here
In the dark districts where the City hives
Her palest children, famishing for you.
Speed, Hebe-like, to pour your glowing wine
Not for the gods, but for one God's sick poor,
Whose throats are parched for your delirious cup!