When The Red Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob,
…..Bobbin’ Along, Harry Woods
Loveliest of Trees, A. E. Houseman
As I Looked, Delmore Schwartz
Whose Are The Little Beds, Emily Dickinson
Song of Songs, King Solomon (excerpts)
Up Up My Friend, William Wordsworth
Tiptoe Through The Tulips, Al Dubin
There’s A Path, Corrine Roosevelt Robinson
April Showers, B.G. DeSilva
A Lady Red, Emily Dickinson
A Prayer In Spring, Robert Frost
Some of My Favorite Things, Oscar Hammerstein
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Spring Morning, A.A. Milne
When The Red Robin Comes Bob-Bob Bobbin’ Along
by Harry Woods
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Loveliest of Trees
by A.E. Houseman
LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
As I Looked
by Delmore Schwartz
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Whose Are The Little Beds
by Emily Dickinson
Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled –
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again –
Whose are the beds – the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest –
A little further on –
Nearest the door – to wake the 1st,
Little Leontoden.
‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster –
Anemone, and Bell –
Bartsia, in the blanket red –
And chubby Daffodil.
Meanwhile – at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied –
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids –
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,
She’s dreaming of the woods!
Then turning from them reverent –
Their bedtime ’tis, she said –
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
Song of Song (excerpts)
by King Solomon
(translation)
[The feminine voice]
The voice of my love: listen!
Bounding over the mountains
toward me, across the hills.
[The masculine voice]
And he calls me:
Hurry, my love, my friend,
and come away!
Look, winter is over,
the rains are done,
wildflowers spring up in the fields.
Now is the time of the nightingale.
In every meadow you hear
the song of the turtledove
The fig tree has sweetened
its new green fruit
and the young budded vines smell spicy.
Hurry, my love, my friend
come away.
My dove in the clefts of the rock,
in the shadow of the cliff,
let me see you, all of you!
Let me hear your voice,
your delicious song.
I love to look at you.
[The feminine voice]
My beloved is mine and I am his.
Up Up My Friend
by William Wordsworth
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
Tiptoe Through The Tulips
by Al Dubin
Tiptoe to the window, by the window that is where I’ll be
Come tiptoe through the tulips with me!
Tiptoe from your pillow, to the shadow of a willow tree
And tiptoe through the tulips with me!
Knee deep in flowers we’ll stray, we’ll keep the showers away.
And if I kiss you in the garden, in the moonlight, will you
pardon me?
Come tiptoe through the tulips with me!
The Path That Leads to Nowhere
by Corrine Roosevelt Robinson
THERE’S a path that leads to Nowhere
In a meadow that I know,
Where an inland island rises
And the stream is still and slow;
There it wanders under willows
And beneath the silver green
Of the birches’ silent shadows
Where the early violets lean.
Other pathways lead to Somewhere,
But the one I love so well
Had no end and no beginning –
Just the beauty of the dell,
Just the wildflowers and the lilies
Yellow striped as adder’s tongue,
Seem to satisfy my pathway
As it winds their sweets among.
There I go to meet the Springtime,
When the meadow is aglow,
Marigolds amid the marshes,
And the stream is still and slow;
There I find my fair oasis,
And with care-free feet I tread
For the pathway leads to Nowhere,
And the blue is overhead!
All the ways that lead to Somewhere
Echo with the hurrying feet
Of the Struggling and the Striving,
But the way I find so sweet
Bids me dream and bids me linger,
Joy and Beauty are its goal,
On the path that leads to Nowhere
I have sometimes found my soul.
April Showers
by B.G. DeSilva
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A Lady Red
by Emily Dickinson
A Lady red – amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms –
Sweep vale – and hill – and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird –
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the “Resurrection”
Were nothing very strange!
A Prayer in Spring
by Robert Frost
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Some of My Favorite Things
by Oscar Hammerstein
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