Nothing is so beautiful as Spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.

"Nothing is so beautiful as Spring-
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;

(from "Spring")"

Spring, the sweete Spring, is the yeres pleasant King,
Then bloomes eche thing, then maydes daunce in a ring,
Cold doeth not sting, the pretty birds doe sing,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo.The Palme and May make countrey houses gay,
Lambs friske and play, the Shepherds pype all day,
And we heare aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo.The fields breathe sweete, the dayzies kisse our feete,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every streete, these tunes our eares doe greete,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo Spring, the sweete Spring.

A thousand songs from a thousand boughs
The glad birds' pleasure declare ;
The rills are laughing in crystal light—
For the presence of Spring is there.

When Spring came on with fresh delight
To cheer the soul, and charm the sight,
While every easy breezes, softer rain
And warmer suns salute the plain.

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 wee, to witta woo!

The composer Aaron Copland got it right. An n spring is music for dancing. The woods dance with the colors of wildflowers, nodding sprays of white dogwood and the pink froth of redbuds, rushing streams and the embroidered solemnity of dark mountains.

And on the flowers
The plenteous spring a thousand streams down pours.

spring is super in the supermarkets
and the strawberries prance and glow
never mind that they're all kinda tart and tasteless
as strawberries go
meanwhile wild things are not for sale
anymore than they are for show
so i'll be outside, in love with the kind of beauty
it takes more than eyes to know

Spring is Christ, Raising martyred plants from their shrouds. Their mouths open in gratitude, wanting to be kissed. The glow of the rose and the tulip means a lamp is inside. A leaf trembles. I tremble in the wind-beauty like silk from Turkestan. The censer fans into flame. This wind is the Holy Spirit. The trees are Mary.

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the spring.
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells’ cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green.

Awakening hope has named the name
Of love, or blown its spark to flame.
Restlessness, but as the winds range
From leaf to leaf, from flower to flower;
Changefulness, but as rainbows change,
From colour'd sky to sunlit hour.
Ay, well indeed may minstrel sing,—
What have the heart and year like spring?

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nurs’d in dew,
Anemonies that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell, mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands, her wreaths again.
Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring;
Ah! why has happiness—no second spring?

In the scenery of spring, nothing is better, nothing worse; The flowering branches are of themselves, some short, some long.