To Spring

A poem in spirit of the Romantic genre revels in the idea that beauty only exists but to those who experience it.

The Giant wakes with young yawns
And, while I watch dawn break
With its bleeding yellows and pinks, it
Embraces the budding land with arms
Of ancient harmonic effect.

The boughs of an old oak happily
Filters the break. Her leaves, in tints
Of green - soon to be bright, then rust -
Dance an ignorant dance of
Young happy, happy times.

Oh! The immortal giant
Speaks in pious tongues of old
That only bits can I understand.
The Giant will wake again.
But this day is for mortals.

With its embrace the Giant takes me in.
Yes he is immortal, yes, but only by me.
This young artist’s brain can perceive
That never-dying thing and that
Is why the loot and Abyssinian maid sing.

Spring is yet jealous, for this day
Holds more beauty in these eyes
Than she can but physical produce.
She tries day after day,
But none are like my part in May.