March Poetry

Robert Vonnoh Early Spring

Week 1: Nesting Birds

The Brown Thrush

By Lucy Larcom

There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.

He’s singing to me! He’s singing to me!

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!

   Don’t you hear? Don’t you see?

   Hush! Look! In my tree

   I’m as happy as happy can be!”

And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,

And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree?

Don’t meddle! Don’t touch! Little girl, little boy,

Or the world will lose some of its joy!

   Now I’m glad! Now I’m free!

   And I always shall be,

   If you never bring sorrow to me.”

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,

To you and to me, to you and to me;

And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,

“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!

   But long it won’t be,

   Don’t you know? Don’t you see?

   Unless we are as good as can be!”

Week 2: Spring Pond Study

A Friend in the Garden

By Juliana Horatia Ewing

He is not John the gardener,

And yet the whole day long

Employs himself most usefully,

The flower-beds among.

He is not Tom the pussy-cat,

And yet the other day,

With stealthy stride and glistening eye,

He crept upon his prey.

He is not Dash the dear old dog,

And yet, perhaps, if you

Took pains with him and petted him,

You'd come to love him too.

He's not a Blackbird, though he chirps,

And though he once was black;

And now he wears a loose grey coat,

All wrinkled on the back.

He's got a very dirty face,

And very shining eyes!

He sometimes comes and sits indoors;

He looks--and p'r'aps is--wise.

But in a sunny flower-bedHe has his fixed abode;

He eats the things that eat my plants--

He is a friendly TOAD.

Week 3: The Vernal Equinox

Written in March

By William Wordsworth

The cock is crowing,

 The stream is flowing,

 The small birds twitter,

 The lake doth glitter

The green field sleeps in the sun;

 The oldest and youngest

 Are at work with the strongest;

 The cattle are grazing,

 Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

 Like an army defeated

 The snow hath retreated,

 And now doth fare ill

 On the top of the bare hill;

The plowboy is whooping- anon-anon:

 There's joy in the mountains;

 There's life in the fountains;

 Small clouds are sailing,

 Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

Week 4: Garden Snails

The Snail

By William Cowper

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,

The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,

As if he grew there, house and all                                                

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,

When danger imminent betides

Of storm, or other harm besides                                               

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,

His self-collecting power is such,

He shrinks into his house, with much                                               

Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,

Except himself has chattels none,

Well satisfied to be his own                                               

Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,

Nor partner of his banquet needs,

And if he meets one, only feeds                                               

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,

(He and his house are so combin'd)

If, finding it, he fails to find                                               

Its master.