The city’s all a-shining
beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind’s a-blowing,
The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
and falling one by one —
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time has begun.

I know the Bois is twinkling
In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean,
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And the leaves are growing green.

The sun’s gone in, the sparkle’s dead,
There falls a dash of rain,
But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
beside her window-pane,
When it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time’s come again.

Sara Teasdale

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I love the spring, although her changeful skies
weep oftener than smile—a child in tears,
with a smile lurking in her glad blue eyes;
and on her brow a coronal appears
of fair and dewy flowers—the primrose pale,
and crocus bud of purple, white, and gold,—
while woodland voices all her coming hail,
and at her touch the cradled leaves unfold.
i love the spring-time for the lengthening light
and coming beauty.  ’tis like childhood’s hours,
then life is all before us stretching bright,
and full with promise of its summer flowers,—
when tears are soonest shed and soonest dried,
and love hath no disguise, and beauty hath no pride.

Isa Craig (1831-1903)


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