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Spring
By Thomas Nashe

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and May make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit
In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet spring!

In the series "Best Poetry Ever"

So We'll Go No More a-Roving
George Gordon Byron

So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

Graphic by MamaBear

Butterfly

What’s in those flowers that you sip,
That makes you seem so tipsy?
We can’t tell if you’re coming from,
Albany or Poughkeepsie,

Or even if you’re going to,
One place or the other.
The way you travel seems to be,
You’re looking for your mother!

Just as a toddler wanders round,
With no fixed course in sight,
The butterfly flits both here and yon,
In most erratic flight.

It seems so inefficient,
Why can’t you just hold still?
And then you stop, and fold your wings,
Upon a daffodil.

You daintily step forward,
“I haven’t touched a drop!”
And just as sober as a Judge,
You spread your wings and FLOP!

And Flip, and Flap, and bounce.
A goonie in reverse.
How can you be so comical?
I know you don’t rehearse.

And yet you get where you must go,
God knows how you can do it.
Perhaps the use of folded hands,
And faith just leads you to it.

By NicknamedBob . . . . March 30, 2004
© 2004