Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, APRIL, by REMY BELLEAU



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

APRIL, by            
First Line: April, pryde of all the yeare
Last Line: Into lyfe amid the foam.


APRIL, pryde of all the yeare
When appeare
Leaves, and sap in fleecy bud
Gently stirs with hope to yield
Fruit fulfilled
From the younglynges of the wood;

April, pryde of meadowe-sheene
Gold and greene,
She whose lavish whim doth shed
Hues and flowers a thousand-fold
On the moulde
In her glory garmented;

April, pryde of wyndes that sighe
Lightly bye,
In whose fannynge her slim thread
Under boughs a snare doth weave
To bereave
Flora of her maidenhead;

April, thy soft hande alone
Slips the zone
Laying Nature's bosom bare,
Stored with odours and with flowers
That in showers
Sweeten all the earth and aire;

April, pryde and pomp of Sprynge
Flourishynge
On my Ladye's locks that meet
O'er her browes and on her bosom
Brimmed with blossom
Thousand-fold and full of sweet;

April, on thy smilynge face
Love's own grace,
Lure and rapture of sweet breath;
April, scent of Gods enshrined
On the wynde
Sheddynge odour far beneath;

'Tis thy gentle summonynge
That doth brynge
Back again the truant swallowes
That in Winter fled afar,—
They that are
Heralds to the Sprynge that followes.

Thorny briar and thorny boughe
Blossom nowe;
Lilies, pinks, and roses red,
That the sunny dayes do quicken
Throng and thicken
In their lovely robes outspread;

And the nightyngale doth sweet
Songs repeat;
In the shade he warbles long,
Breaks the lilt and links agayne
The sweet chayne
Of his never-endynge song.

Love, when thou art haply come
No more numb,
Breathes agayne with gentle breath,
And awakes the smoulderynge fire
Of desire
That chill Winter smotheréth.

In this weather fresh and sunny
Bees mayke honey,
Swarmynge all the sweets to sup;
Each from flow'r to flower dallies
Deep in chalice
There to drink its odour up.

Maye perchance hath fresher wynde,
Softer rind
On her fruits, and dews that bear
Manna and the sweet that thryves
In the hives
Fostered by her gracious aire;

Yet my song I give to her
That doth bear
Her faire name that founde her home
On the wavy sea that broke,
And awoke
Into lyfe amid the foam.





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