THE spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight, Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light; The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come; And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage home. A spell is on my heart, mother, a deep, mysterious spell; I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell! Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write upon, Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away and gone. I Could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving woods, The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the water falls and floods; But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat, That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street. I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right, All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light; But though 't were all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake, And they'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake. I could write of the West, mother, -- tell many a back woods tale; But "Mary Clarets" long ago chanted on that happy trail. And " went it with a rush," mother, as all the world agree, And made " a powerful sight" of fun, and left no laugh for me. I could write on the wars, mother, the soldier's glorious life, -- I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife; But I 've avowed "peace principles," and may not call them back. So I cannot write of war, mother, -- I must take another tack. The terrible might do, mother, -- some wild, unearthly story; I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory. But then that "Raven" there, mother, above that "chamber-door," I asked him if 't would be a hit, -- quoth the raven, "Never more!" I might plead for the poor, mother, the wronged and the oppressed, And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast; But they'd say I was a fanatic, a-battling with weak straws Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws. The fooleries of the beau-monde, mother, should I write on as I feel, The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all genteel; And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heaviest fall, -- They'd vow I was a sour old maid, -- and that were worse than all! I think I'll off to bed, mother, -- I 'm tired, and then it's late; The horse I rode this afternoon had such a shocking gait! So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft repose, For I love a morning doze, mother, -- I love a morning doze. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WORDS IN A CERTAIN APPROPRIATE MODE by HAYDEN CARRUTH STORIES ARE MADE OF MISTAKES by JAMES GALVIN ACROSS THE RED SKY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE COMING OF WAR: ACTAEON by EZRA POUND THISTLE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS |