Spring

…from the quills of the dead white poets

James Thomson (1700-1748)

From the moist meadow to the wither’d hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And swells, and deepens, to the cherish’d eye.
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands display’d,
In full luxuriance to the sighing gales;deer.brake
Where the deer rustle thro’ the twining brake,
And birds sing conceal’d. At once, array’d
In all the colours of the flushing year,
By Nature’s swift and secret-working hand,
The garden glows, and fills the liberal air
With lavish fragrance; while the promis’d fruit
Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv’d,
Within its crimson folds. Now from the town
Burried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,
Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields,
Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops
From the bent bush, as thro’ the verdant maze
Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk;
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend
Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains;
And see the country, far diffus’d around,
One boundless blush; one white-empurpl’d shower
Of mingled blossoms; where the raptur’d eye
Hurries from joy to joy, and hid beneath
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
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