Poetry

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You cannot ever truly hope to tell me
When primrose peeps from out the fresh damped soil
And pushes back the grass to gain the sunlight
And hark at nature's songsters, how they toil
To fill the fast awakening world with music
And greet the sun that blushes all the clouds
And shines upon the ripples on the waters,
That rapturous spring must not be praised most loud.

And yet, you cannot ever try to tell me
When the world is filled with music to the brim
And laughter rings in all the children's voices,
When sunlight seems to breed its own sweet hymn,
And roses bud and smile in great profusion
And scents waft over all the merry streams
That trip and bubble o'er the tiny pebbles,
That summer cannot be the dream of dreams.

But wait, you must not ever chance to tell me
When dim and dark the evenings start to grow,
And velvet skies are sprinkled o'er with diamonds,
When winds begin to howl and swiftly blow
And scurry all the jewelled leaves from branches
And send them down in showers – red, yellow blown,
And crying geese dart over like an arrow
That autumn has not glories of its own.

Yet, Friend, you cannot ever dare to whisper
When trees stand black and haunted with the cold,
And snowflakes from the heavens start to venture
But rapidly begin to grow more bold
So that the earth's soon covered with a carpet
Upon whose softness e'en the poor may tread
And listen to the comfort of the robin,
That winter hasn't beauties though it seems dead.

For, Friend, it seems that nature's ne'er more lovely
Than at the very moment that I gaze;
Then ever do I sense the love that made her
And thank that love with hymns of joyful praise;
For only Love could ever truly fashion
Such a beauteous, glorious world as ours,
And only Love would then give us the privilege
To dwell a space of time amidst her bowers.

Copyright – Patricia Todd.

Written age 16.

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